LIBRARY 

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IRVINE 


THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 


i\ 


THE 

MAN  IN 
LOWER  TEN 

By 

MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART 

AUTHOR  OF 
THE  CIRCULAR  STAIRCASE 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  Br 
HOWARD  CHANDLER  CHRISTY 


New  York 
GROSSET  &   DUNLAP 

Publishers 


COPTRIOHT  1909 

Tint  BOBBS-MEB&ILI.  COMPAJTT 


ps 

3S1S 

173 

M  3 


CONTENTS 


I  I  Go  TO  PrrrsBumo  .....*        1 

II  A  TORN  TELEGRAM 17 

III  ACROSS  THE  AISLE   ......      39 

IV  NUMBERS  SETEN  AMD  NINE       ....      41 
V  THE  WOMAN  nr  THE  NEXT  CAR         .        .        .      59 

VI  THE  Gnu.  IK  BLUE 69 

VII  A  FINE  GOID  CHAIN        .....       70 

VIII  THE  SECOND  SECTION 76 

IX  THE  HALCYON  BREAKFAST        ....      83 

X  Miss  WEST'S  REQUEST 94 

XI  THE  NAME  WAS  ScLLiTAir        .        .        .        .103 

XII  THEGOLD'BAO 114 

XIII  FADED  ROSES    .         .        .        .        .        .        .131 

XIV  THE  TRAP-DOOR       .        .        .        .        .        .141 

XV  THE  CINEMATOGRAPH 153 

XVI  THE  SHADOW  OF  A  GIRL 170 

j 

XVII  AT  THE  FARM-HOUSE  AGAIN    ....     180 

XVIII  A  NEW  WORLD 1M 

XIX  AT  THE  TABLE  NEXT 199 

XX  THE  NOTES  AND  A  BAROAIN      ....    308 

XXI  MCKNIGHT'S  THSORT  ,    £1* 


CONTENTS— Continued 

CHAPTER  FAGB 

XXII  AT  THE  BOAKDING-HOUSH             ....      223 

XXIII  A  NIGHT  AT  THE  LAURELS        ....    233 

XXIV  His  WIFE'S  FATHER 254 

XXV    AT  THE  STATIOH 269 

XXVI    ON  TO  RICHMOND 279 

XXVII  THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STABS       .        .        .    296 

XXVIII  ALISON'S  STORY        .        .        .        .        .        .313 

XXIX    IN  THE  DININQ-ROOM 325 

XXX    FINER  DETAILS 341 

XXXI  AND  ONLY  ONE  ARM        .....    367 


THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 


THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

CHAPTER    I 

I  GO  TO  PITTSBURG 

MCKNIGHT  is  gradually  taking  over  the 
criminal  end  of  the  business.  I  never 
liked  it,  and  since  the  strange  case  of  the  man  in 
lower  ten,  I  have  been  a  bit  squeamish.  Given  a 
case  like  that,  where  you  can  build  up  a  network 
of  clues  that  absolutely  incriminate  three  en 
tirely  different  people,  only  one  of  whom  can  be 
guilty,  and  your  faith  in  circumstantial  evidence 
dies  of  overcrowding.  I  never  see  a  shivering, 
white-faced  wretch  in  the  prisoners'  dock  that  I 
do  not  hark  back  with  shuddering  horror  to  the 
strange  events  on  the  Pullman  car  Ontario,  be 
tween  Washington  and  Pittsburg,  on  the  night 
of  September  ninth,  last. 

McKnight  could  tell  the  story  a  great  deal 
better  than  I,  although  he  can  not  spell  three 
1 


2        THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

consecutive  words  correctly.  But,  while  h«  has 
imagination  and  humor,  he  is  lazj. 

"It  didn't  happen  to  me,  anyhow,"  he  pro 
tested,  when  I  put  it  up  to  him.  "And  nobodj 
cares  for  second-hand  thrills.  Besides,  you  want 
the  unvarnished  and  ungarnished  truth,  and  I'm 
no  hand  for  that.  I'm  a  lawyer." 

So  am  I,  although  there  have  been  times  when 
my  assumption  in  that  particular  has  been  dis 
puted.  I  am  unmarried,  and  just  old  enough  to 
dance  with  the  grown-up  little  sisters  of  th* 
girls  I  used  to  know.  I  am  fond  of  outdoors, 
prefer  horses  to  the  aforesaid  grown-up  little 
sisters,  am  without  sentiment  (am  crossed  out 
and  was  substituted. — Ed.)  and  completely 
ruled  and  frequently  routed  by  my  housekeeper, 
an  elderly  widow. 

In  fact,  of  all  the  men  of  my  acquaintance,  1 
was  probably  the  most  prosaic,  the  least  adven 
turous,  the  one  man  in  a  hundred  who  would 
be  likely  to  go  without  a  deviation  from  the  nor 
mal  through  the  orderly  procession  of  the  sea 
sons,  summer  suits  to  winter  flannels,  golf  to 
bridge. 


1  GO   TO   PITTSBURG  3 

So  it  was  a  queer  freak  of  the  demons  of 
chance  to  perch  on  my  unsusceptible  thirty-year- 
old  chest,  tie  me  up  with  a  crime,  ticket  me 
] with  a  love  affair,  and  start  me  on  that  sensa 
tional  and  not  always  respectable  journey  that 
ended  so  surprisingly  less  than  three  weeks  later 
in  the  firm's  private  office.  It  had  been  the  most 
remarkable  period  of  my  life.  I  would  neither 
give  it  up  nor  live  it  again  under  any  inducement, 
and  yet  all  that  I  lost  was  some  twenty  yards 
off  my  drive ! 

It  was  really  McKnight's  turn  to  make  the 
next  journey.  I  had  a  tournament  at  Chevy 
Chase  for  Saturday,  and  a  short  yacht  cruise 
planned  for  Sunday,  and  when  a  man  has  been 
grinding  at  statute  law  for  a  week,  he  needs  re 
laxation.  But  McKnight  begged  off.  It  was 
not  the  first  time  he  had  shirked  that  summer  in 
^  order  to  run  down  to  Richmond,  and  I  was  surly 
about  it.  But  this  time  he  had  a  new  excuse. 

"I  wouldn't  be  able  to  look  after  the  business 
if  I  did  go,"  he  said.  He  has  a  sort  of  wide- 
eyed  frankness  that  makes  one  ashamed  to  doubt 
him.  "I'm  always  car  sick  crossing  the  moun- 


4        THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

tains.  It's  a  fact,  Lollie.  See-sawing  over  the 
peaks  does  it.  Why,  crossing  the  Alleghany 
Mountains  has  the  Gulf  Stream  to  Bermuda 
beaten  to  a  frazzle." 

So  I  gave  him  up  finally  and  went  home  to 
pack.  He  came  later  in  the  evening  with  his 
machine,  the  Cannonball,  to  take  me  to  the  sta 
tion,  and  he  brought  the  forged  notes  in  the 
Bronson  case. 

"Guard  them  with  your  life,"  he  warned  me. 
"They  are  more  precious  than  honor.  Sew  them 
m  your  chest  protector,  or  wherever  people  keep 
Valuables.  I  never  keep  any.  I'll  not  be  happy 
until  I  see  Gentleman  Andy  doing  the  lockstep." 

He  sat  down  on  my  clean  collars,  found  my 
cigarettes  and  struck  a  match  on  the  mahogany 
bed  post  with  one  movement. 

"Where's  the  Pirate?"  he  demanded.  The 
Pirate  is  my  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Klopton,  a  very 
worthy  woman,  so  labeled — and  libeled — because 
of  a  ferocious  pair  of  eyes  and  what  McKnight 
called  a  bucaneering  nose.  I  quietly  closed  the 
door  into  the  hall. 

"Keep  your  voice  down,  Richey,"  I  said.  "She 


I   GO   TO   PITTSBURG  8 

is  looking  for  the  evening  paper  to  see  if  it  is 
going  to  rain.  She  has  my  raincoat  and  an  um 
brella  waiting  in  the  hall." 

The  collars  being  damaged  beyond  repair,  he 
left  them  and  went  to  the  window.  He  stood 
there  for  some  time,  staring  at  the  blackness 
that  represented  the  wall  of  the  house  next  door. 

"It's  raining  now,"  he  said  over  his  shoulder, 
and  closed  the  window  and  the  shutters.  Some 
thing  in  his  voice  made  me  glance  up,  but  he 
was  watching  me,  his  hands  idly  in  his  pockets. 

"Who  lives  next  door?"  he  inquired  in  a  per 
functory  tone,  after  a  pause.  I  was  packing  my 
razor. 

"House  is  empty,"  I  returned  absently.  "If 
the  landlord  would  put  it  in  some  sort  of 
shape — " 

"Did  you  put  those  notes  in  your  pocket?" 
he  broke  in. 

"Yes."  I  was  impatient.  "Along  with  my 
certificates  of  registration,  baptism  and  vaccina 
tion.  Whoever  wants  them  will  have  to  steal  my 
coat  to  get  them." 

"Well,  I  would  move  them,  if  I  were  you. 


6        THE    MAN   IN  LOWER   TEN! 

Somebody  in  the  next  house  was  confoundedly 
anxious  to  see  where  you  put  them.  Somebodj 
right  at  that  window  opposite.'* 

I  scoffed  at  the  idea,  but  nevertheless  I  moved/ 
the  papers,  putting  them  in  my  traveling-bag, 
well  down  at  the  bottom.    McKnight  watched  me 
uneasily. 

"I  have  a  hunch  that  you  are  going  to  have 
trouble,"  he  said,  as  I  locked  the  alligator  bag. 
"Darned  if  I  like  starting  anything  important 
on  Friday." 

"You  hare  a  congenital  dislike  to  start  any 
thing  on  any  old  day,"  I  retorted,  still  sore 
from  my  lost  Saturday.  "And  if  you  knew  the 
owner  of  that  house  as  I  do  you  would  know  that 
if  there  was  any  one  at  that  window  he  is  paj- 
ing  rent  for  the  privilege." 

Mrs.  Klopton  rapped  at  the  door  and  spok« 
discreetly  from  the  hall. 

"Did  Mr.  McKnight  bring  the  evening  par 
per?"  she  inquired. 

"Sorry,  but  I  didn't,  Mrs.  Klopton,"  Mc 
Knight  called.  "The  Cubs  won,  three  to  noth 
ing."  He  listened,  grinning,  as  she  moved  awaj 


with  little  irritated  rustles  of  her  black  silk 
gown. 

I  finished  my  packing,  changed  my  collar  and 
was  ready  to  go.  Then  very  cautiously  we  put 
out  the  light  and  opened  the  shutters.  The 
window  across  was  merely  a  deeper  black  in  the 
darkness.  It  was  closed  and  dirty.  And  yet, 
probably  owing  to  Richey's  suggestion,  I  had 
an  uneasy  sensation  of  eyes  staring  across  at 
me.  The  next  moment  we  were  at  the  door, 
poised  for  flight. 

"We'll  have  to  run  for  it,"  I  said  in  a  whisper. 
"She's  down  there  with  a  package  of  some  sort, 
sandwiches  probably.  And  she's  threatened  me 
with  overshoes  for  a  month.  Ready  now !" 

I  had  a  kaleidoscopic  view  of  Mrs.  Klopton 
in  the  lower  hall,  holding  out  an  armful  of  sucb 
traveling  impedimenta  as  she  deemed  essential, 
Awhile  beside  her,  Euphemia,  the  colored  house 
maid,  grinned  over  a  white-wrapped  box. 

"Awfully  sorry — no  time — back  Sunday,"  I 
panted  over  my  shoulder.  Then  the  doov  closed 
and  the  car  was  moving  away. 

McKnight  b«*t  forward  and  stared  at  the 


8        THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 


of  the  empty  house  next  door  as  we 
passed.  It  was  black,  staring,  mysterious,  as 
empty  buildings  are  apt  to  be. 

"I'd  like  to  hold  a  post-mortem  on  that  corpse 
of  a  house,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "By  George, 
I've  a  notion  to  get  out  and  take  a  look." 

"Somebody  after  the  brass  pipes,"  I  scoffed. 
"House  has  been  empty  for  a  year." 

With  one  hand  on  the  steering  wheel  Mc- 
Knight  held  out  the  other  for  my  cigarette  case. 
"Perhaps,"  he  said;  "but  I  don't  see  what  she 
would  want  with  brass  pipe." 

"A  woman!"  I  laughed  outright.  "You 
have  been  looking  too  hard  at  the  picture  in  the 
back  of  your  watch,  that's  all.  There's  an  ex 
periment  like  that  :  if  you  stare  long  enough  —  " 

But  McKnight  was  growing  sulky:  he  sat 
looking  rigidly  ahead,  and  he  did  not  speak 
again  until  he  brought  the  Cannonball  to  a  stop 
at  the  station.  Even  then  it  was  only  a  perfunc 
tory  remark.  He  went  through  the  gate  with 
me,  and  with  five  minutes  to  spare,  we  lounged 
and  smoked  in  the  train  shed.  My  mind  had 
slid  away  from  my  surroundings  and  had  wan- 


I   GO   TO   PITTSBURG  9 

dered  to  a  polo  pony  that  I  couldn't  afford  and 
intended  to  buy  anyhow.  Then  McKnight  shook 
off  his  taciturnity. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  look  so  martyred,"( 
he  burst  out ;  "I  know  you've  done  all  the  travel 
ing  this  summer.  I  know  you're  missing  a  game 
to-morrow.  But  don't  be  a,  patient  mother ;  con 
found  it,  I  have  to  go  to  Richmond  on  Sunday. 
I — I  want  to  see  a  girl." 

"Oh,  don't  mind  me,"  I  observed  politely. 
"Personally,  I  wouldn't  change  places  with  you. 
What's  her  name — North  ?  South  ?" 

"West,"  he  snapped.  "Don't  try  to  be  funny. 
And  all  I  have  to  say,  Blakeley,  is  that  if  you 
ever  fall  in  love  I  hope  you  make  an  egregious 
ass  of  yourself." 

In  view  of  what  followed,  this  came  rather 
close  to  prophecy. 

The  trip  west  was  without  incident.  I  played 
bridge  with  a  furniture  dealer  from  Grand  Rap 
ids,  a  sales  agent  for  a  Pittsburg  iron  firm  and 
a  young  professor  from  an  eastern  college.  I 
won  three  rubbers  out  of  four,  finished  what 
cigarettes  McKnight  had  left  me,  and  went  to 


10      THE   MAN   IN   LOWER    TEN 

bed  about  one  o'clock.  It  was  growing  cooler, 
and  the  rain  had  ceased.  Once,  toward  morning, 
I  wakened  with  a  start,  for  no  apparent  reason, 
and  sat  bolt  upright.  I  had  an  uneasy  feeling 
that  some  one  had  been  looking  at  me,  the  same 
sensation  I  had  experienced  earlier  in  the  even 
ing  at  the  window.  But  I  could  feel  the  bag 
with  the  notes,  between  me  and  the  window,  and 
with  my  arm  thrown  over  it  for  security,  I 
lapsed  again  into  slumber.  Later,  when  I  tried 
to  piece  together  the  fragments  of  that  journey, 
I  remembered  that  my  coat,  which  had  been  fold 
ed  and  placed  beyond  my  restless  tossing,  had 
been  rescued  in  the  morning  from  a  heterogene 
ous  jumble  of  blankets,  evening  papers  and 
cravat,  had  been  shaken  out  with  profanity  and 
donned  with  wrath.  At  the  time,  nothing  oc 
curred  to  me  but  the  necessity  of  writing  to  the 
Pullman  Company  and  asking  them  if  they  ever 
traveled  in  their  own  cars.  I  even  formulated 
some  of  the  letter. 

"If  they  are  built  to  scale,  why  not  take  a 
man  of  ordinary  stature  as  your  unit?"  I  wrote 
mentally.  "I  can  not  fold  together  like  the 


I   GO    TO    PITTSBURG  11 

traveling  cup  with  which  I  drink  your  abomina 
ble  water." 

I  was  more  cheerful  after  I  had  had  a  cup  of 
coffee  in  the  Union  Station.  It  was  too  early  to^ 
attend  to  business,  and  I  lounged  in  the  restau 
rant  and  hid  behind  the  morning  papers.  As 
I  had  expected,  they  had  got  hold  of  my  visit 
and  its  object.  On  the  first  page  was  a  staring 
announcement  that  the  forged  papers  in  the 
Bronson  case  had  been  brought  to  Pittsburg. 
Underneath,  a  telegram  from  Washington 
stated  that  Lawrence  Blakeley,  of  Blakeley  and 
McKnight,  had  left  for  Pittsburg  the  night 
before,  and  that,  owing  to  the  approaching  trial 
of  the  Bronson  case  and  the  illness  of  John 
Gilmore,  the  Pittsburg  millionaire,  who  was  the 
chief  witness  for  the  prosecution,  it  was  sup 
posed  that  the  visit  was  intimately  concerned 
with  the  trial. 

I  looked  around  apprehensively.  There  were 
no  reporters  yet  in  sight,  and  thankful  to  have 
escaped  notice  I  paid  for  my  breakfast  and  left. 
'At  the  cab-stand  I  chose  the  least  dilapidated 
hansom  I  could  find,  and  giving  the  driver  th« 


12      THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

address  of  the  Gilmore  residence,  in  the  East 
end,  I  got  in. 

I  was  just  in  time.  As  the  cab  turned  and 
rolled  off,  a  slim  young  man  in  a  straw  hat  sepa 
rated  himself  from  a  little  group  of  men  and 
hurried  toward  us. 

"Hey!  Wait  a  minute  there!"  he  called, 
breaking  into  a  trot. 

But  the  cabby  did  not  hear,  or  perhaps  did 
not  care  to.  We  jogged  comfortably  along,  to 
my  relief,  leaving  the  young  man  far  behind. 
I  avoid  reporters  on  principle,  having  learned 
long  ago  that  I  am  an  easy  mark  for  a  clever  in 
terviewer. 

It  was  perhaps  nine  o'clock  when  I  left  the 
station.  Our  way  was  along  the  boulevard  which 
hugged  the  side  of  one  of  the  city's  great  hills. 
Far  below,  to  the  left,  lay  the  railroad  tracks 
and  the  seventy  times  seven  looming  stacks  of 
the  mills.  The  white  mist  of  the  river,  the  grays 
and  blacks  of  the  smoke  blended  into  a  half- 
revealing  haze,  dotted  here  and  there  with  fire. 
It  was  unlovely,  tremendous.  Whistler  might 
have  painted  it  with  its  pathos,  its  majesty,  but 


I   GO   TO   PITTSBURG  19 

he  would  have  missed  what  made  it  infinitely 
suggestive — the  rattle  and  roar  of  iron  on  iron, 
the  rumble  of  wheels,  the  throbbing  beat,  against 
the  ears,  of  fire  and  heat  and  brawn  welding 
prosperity. 

Something  of  this  I  voiced  to  the  grim  old  mil 
lionaire  who  was  responsible  for  at  least  part  of 
it.  He  was  propped  up  in  bed  in  his  East  end 
home,  listening  to  the  market  reports  read  by  a 
nurse,  and  he  smiled  a  little  at  my  enthusiasm. 

"I  can't  see  much  beauty  in  it  myself,"  he 
said.  "But  it's  our  badge  of  prosperity.  The 
full  dinner  pail  here  means  a  nose  that  looks 
like  a  flue.  Pittsburg  without  smoke  wouldn't 
be  Pittsburg,  any  more  than  New  York  prohibi 
tion  would  be  New  York.  Sit  down  for  a  few 
minutes,  Mr.  Blakeley.  Now,  Miss  Gardner, 
Westinghouse  Electric." 

The  nurse  resumed  her  reading  in  a  monoto 
nous  voice.     She  read  literally  and  without  un- . 
derstanding,  using  initials  and  abbreviations  as 
they  came.     But  the  shrewd  old  man  followed 
her  easily.    Once,  however,  he  stopped  her. 

"D-o  is  ditto,"  he  said  gently,  "not  do." 


A*  the  nurse  droned  along,  I  found  myself 
looking  curiously  at  a  photograph  in  a  silver 
frame  on  the  bedside  table.  It  was  the  picture 
of  a  girl  in  white,  with  her  hands  clasped  loosely 
before  her.  Against  the  dark  background  her 
figure  stood  out  slim  and  young.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  rather  grim  environment,  possibly  it  was 
my  mood,  but  although  as  a  general  thing 
photographs  of  young  girls  make  no  appeal  to 
me,  this  one  did.  I  found  my  eyes  straying  back 
to  it.  By  a  little  finesse  I  even  made  out  the 
name  written  across  the  corner,  "Alison." 

Mr.  Gilmore  lay  back  among  his  pillows  and 
listened  to  the  nurse's  listless  voice.  But  he 
was  watching  me  from  under  his  heavy  eye 
brows,  for  when  the  reading  was  over,  and  we 
were  alone,  he  indicated  the  picture  with  a  ges 
ture. 

"I  keep  it  there  to  remind  myself  that  I  am. 
ran  old  man,"  he  said.  "That  is  my  grand 
daughter,  Alison  West." 

I  expressed  the  customary  polite  surprise,  a? 
which,  finding  me  responsive,  he  told  me  his  age 
with  a  chuckle  of  pride.  More  surprise,  this 


1   GO    TO    PITTSBURG  10 

time  genuine.  From  that  we  went  to  what  he 
ate  for  breakfast  and  did  not  eat  for  luncheon, 
and  then  to  his  reserve  power,  which  at  sixty- 
five  becomes  a  matter  for  thought.  And  so,  hr 
a  wide  circle,  back  to  where  we  started,  the  pic 
ture. 

"Father  was  a  rascal,"  John  Gilmore  said, 
picking  up  the  frame.  "The  happiest  day  of 
my  life  was  when  I  knew  he  was  safely  dead  in 
bed  and  not  hanged.  If  the  child  had  looked 
like  him,  I — well,  she  doesn't.  She's  a  Gilmore, 
every  inch.  Supposed  to  look  like  me." 

"Very  noticeably,"  I  agreed  soberly. 

I  had  produced  the  notes  by  that  time,  and 
replacing  the  picture  Mr.  Gilmore  gathered  his 
spectacles  from  beside  it.  He  wenb  over  the 
four  notes  methodically,  examining  each  care 
fully  and  putting  it  down  before  he  picked  up 
the  next.  Then  he  leaned  back  and  took  off  his 
glasses. 

"They're  not  so  bad,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 
"Not  so  bad.  But  I  never  saw  them  before. 
That's  my  unofficial  signature.  I  am  inclined 
to  think" — he  was  speaking  partly  to  himself — 


16      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

"to  think  that  he  has  got  hold  of  a  letter  of 
mine,  probably  to  Alison.  Bronson  was  a  friend 
of  her  rapscallion  of  a  father." 

I  took  Mr.  Gilmore's  deposition  and  put  it  into 
my  traveling-bag  with  the  forged  notes.  When  I 
saw  them  again,  almost  three  weeks  later,  they 
were  unrecognizable,  a  mass  of  charred  paper 
on  a  copper  ash-tray.  In  the  interval  other  and 
bigger  things  had  happened :  the  Bronson  forg 
ery  case  had  shrunk  beside  the  greater  and  more 
imminent  mystery  of  the  man  in  lower  ten.  And 
Alison  West  had  come  into  the  story  and  into 
my  life. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  TORN   TELEGRAM 

I  LUNCHED  alone  at  the  Gilmore  house, 
and  went  back  to  the  city  at  once.  The 
sun  had  lifted  the  mists,  and  a  fresh  summer 
•wind  had  cleared  away  the  smoke  pall.  The 
boulevard  was  full  of  cars  flying  countryward 
for  the  Saturday  half-holiday,  toward  golf  and 
tennis,  green  fields  and  babbling  girls.  I  gritted 
my  teeth  and  thought  of  McKnight  at  Rich 
mond,  visiting  the  lady  with  the  geographical 
name.  And  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  associated 
iJohn  Gilmore's  granddaughter  with  the  "West** 
that  McKnight  had  irritably  flung  at  me. 

I   still    carried   my   traveling-bag,    for   Mc- 

1  Knight's  vision  at  the  window  of  the  empty 

house  had  not  been  without  effect.     I  did  not 

transfer  the  notes  to  my  pocket,  and,  if  I  had,  it 

would  not  have  altered  the  situation  later.    Only 

17 


18      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

the  other  day  McKnight  put  this  very  thing  wp 
to  me. 

"I  warned  you,"  he  reminded  me.    '"I  told  you 
there  were  queer  things  coming,  and  to  be  on  ^ 
your  guard.    You  ought  to  have  taken  your  re 
volver." 

"It  would  have  been  of  exactly  as  much  use  as 
a  bucket  of  snow  in — Africa,"  I  retorted.  "If 
I  had  never  closed  my  eyes,  or  if  I  had  kept  my 
finger  on  the  trigger  of  a  six-shooter  (which  i» 
novelesque  for  revolver),  the  result  would  haye 
been  the  same.  And  the  next  time  you  want  a 
little  excitement  with  every  variety  of  thrill 
thrown  in,  I  can  put  you  by  way  of  it.  You  be 
gin  by  getting  the  wrong  berth  in  a  Pullman 
car,  and  end — " 

"Oh,  I  know  how  it  ends,"  he  finished  shortly. 
*'Don't  you  suppose  the  whole  thing's  written 
on  my  spinal  marrow  ?" 

But  I  am  wandering  again.  That  is  the  dif-, 
ficulty  with  the  unprofessional  story-teller:  he 
yaws  back  and  forth  and  can't  keep  in  the  wind ; 
he  drops  his  characters  overboard  when  he  hasn't 
any  further  use  for  them  and  drowns  them;  ha 


forgets  the  coffee-pot  and  the  frying-pan  and 
•11  the  other  small  essentials,  and,  if  he  carries  a 

love   affair,   he   mutters   a   fervent   "Allah   be 
» 

praised"  when  he  lands  them,  drenched  with  ad 
ventures,  at  the  matrimonial  dock  at  the  end  of 
the  final  chapter. 

I  put  in  a  thoroughly  unsatisfactory  after- 
moon.  Time  dragged  eternally.  I  dropped  in 
at  a  summer  vaudeville,  and  bought  some  ties  at 
a  haberdasher's.  I  was  bored  but  unexpectant; 
I  had  no  premonition  of  what  was  to  come. 
Nothing  unusual  had  ever  happened  to  me; 
friends  of  mine  had  sometimes  sailed  the  high 
seas  of  adventure  or  skirted  the  coasts  of  chance, 
but  all  of  the  shipwrecks  had  occurred  after  a 
woman  passenger  had  been  taken  on.  "Ergo," 
I  had  always  said  "no  women !"  I  repeated  it  to 
myself  that  evening  almost  savagely,  when  I 
found  my  thoughts  straying  back  to  the  picture 
of  John  Gilmore's  granddaughter.  I  even  ar 
gued  as  I  ate  my  solitary  dinner  at  a  down-town 
restaurant. 

"Haven't  you  troubles  enough,"  I  reflected, 
^without  looking  for  more?  Hasn't  Bad  News 


20      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER    TEN 

gone  lame,  with  a  matinee  race  booked  for  next 
week?  Otherwise  aren't  you  comfortable?  Isn't 
your  house  in  order?  Do  you  want  to  sell  a  pony 
in  order  to  have  the  library  done  over  in  mission 
or  the  drawing-room  in  gold?  Do  you  want 
somebody  to  count  the  empty  cigarette  boxes 
lying  around  every  morning?" 

Lay  it  to  the  long  idle  afternoon,  to  the  new 
environment,  to  anything  you  like,  but  I  began 
to  think  that  perhaps  I  did.  I  was  confoundedly 
lonely.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  its  even 
course  began  to  waver:  the  needle  registered 
warning  marks  on  the  matrimonial  seismograph, 
lines  vague  enough,  but  lines. 

My  alligator  bag  lay  at  my  feet,  still  locked. 
While  I  waited  for  my  coffee  I  leaned  back  and 
surveyed  the  people  incuriously.  There  were 
the  usual  couples  intent  on  each  other:  my  new 
state  of  mind  made  me  regard  them  with  toler 
ance.  But  at  the  next  table,  where  a  man  and 
woman  dined  together,  a  different  atmosphere 
prevailed.  My  attention  was  first  caught  by 
the  woman's  face.  She  had  been  speaking  ear 
nestly  across  the  table,  her  profile  turned  to  me. 


A   TORN    TELEGRAM  21 

I  had  noticed  casually  her  earnest  manner,  her 
somber  clothes,  and  the  great  mass  of  odd, 
bronze-colored  hair  on  her  neck.  But  suddenly 
she  glanced  toward  me  and  the  utter  hopeless 
ness^ — almost  tragedy — of  her  expression  struck 
me  with  a  shock.  She  half  closed  her  eyes  and 
drew  a  long  breath,  then  she  turned  again  to  the 
man  across  the  table. 

Neither  one  was  eating.  He  sat  low  in  his 
chair,  his  chin  on  his  chest,  ugly  folds  of  thick 
flesh  protruding  over  his  collar.  He  was  prob 
ably  fifty,  bald,  grotesque,  sullen,  and  yet  not 
without  a  suggestion  of  power.  But  he  had 
been  drinking;  as  I  looked,  he  raised  an  un 
steady  hand  and  summoned  a  waiter  with  a  wine 
list. 

The  young  woman  bent  across  the  table  and 
spoke  again  quickly.  She  had  unconsciously 
raised  her  voice.  Not  beautiful,  in  her  earnest- 
1  ness  and  stress  she  rather  interested  me.  I  had 
an  idle  inclination  to  advise  the  waiter  to  re 
move  the  bottled  temptation  from  the  table.  I 
wonder  what  would  have  happened  if  I  had? 
Suppose  Harrington  had  not  been  intoxicated 


29      THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

when  he  entered  the  Pullman  car  Ontario  thai 
night ! 

For  they  were  about  to  make  a  journey,  I 
gathered,  and  the  young  woman  wished  to  go 
alone.  I  drank  three  cups  of  coffee,  which  ac 
counted  for  my  wakefulness  later,  and  shame 
lessly  watched  the  tableau  before  me.  The 
woman's  protest  evidently  went  for  nothing: 
across  the  table  the  man  grunted  monosyllabic 
replies  and  grew  more  and  more  lowering  and 
sullen.  Once,  during  a  brief  unexpected  pian~ 
issimo  in  the  music,  her  voice  came  to  me 
sharply : 

"If  I  could  only  see  him  in  time!"  she  was 
saying.  "Oh,  it's  terrible !" 

In  spite  of  my  interest  I  would  have  for* 
gotten  the  whole  incident  at  once,  erased  it  from 
my  mind  as  one  does  the  inessentials  and  clut- 
terings  of  memory,  had  I  not  met  them  again, 
later  that  evening,  in  the  Pennsylvania  station. 
The  situation  between  them  had  not  visibly  al 
tered:  the  same  dogged  determination  showed  in 
the  man's  face,  but  the  young  woman — daugh 
ter  or  wife?  I  wondered — had  drawn  down  hei 


Tell  and  I  could  only  suspect  what  white  misery 
lay  beneath. 

I  bought  my  berth  after  waiting  in  a  line  of 
some  eight  or  ten  people.  When,  step  by  step, 
I  had  almost  reached  the  window,  a  tall  woman 
whom  I  had  not  noticed  before  spoke  to  me  from 
my  elbow.  She  had  a  ticket  and  money  in  her 
hand. 

"Will  you  try  to  get  me  a  lower  when  you 
buy  yours?"  she  asked.  "I  have  traveled  for 
three  nights  in  uppers." 

I  consented,  of  course;  beyond  that  I  hardly 
moticed  the  woman.  I  had  a  vague  impression 
of  height  and  a  certain  amount  of  stateliness, 
but  the  crowd  was  pushing  behind  me,  and  some 
one  was  standing  on  my  foot.  I  got  two  lowers 
easily,  and,  turning  with  the  change  and  berths, 
held  out  the  tickets. 

"Which  will  you  have?"  I  asked.  "Lower 
eleven  or  lower  ten?" 

"It  makes  no  difference,"  she  said  "Thank 
you  very  much  indeed." 

At  random  I  gave  her  lower  eleven,  and  called 
s.  porter  to  help  her  with  her  luggage.  I  fol- 


24.      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

lowed  them  leisurely  to  the  train  shed,  and  ten 
minutes  more  saw  us  under  way. 

I  looked  into  my  car,  but  it  presented  the 
peculiarly  unattractive  appearance  common  to 
sleepers.  The  berths  were  made  up ;  the  center 
aisle  was  a  path  between  walls  of  dingy,  breeze- 
repelling  curtains,  while  the  two  seats  at  each 
end  of  the  car  were  piled  high  with  suit-cases 
and  umbrellas.  The  perspiring  porter  was  try 
ing  to  be  six  places  at  once :  somebody  has  said 
that  Pullman  porters  are  black  so  they  won't 
show  the  dirt,  but  they  certainly  show  the  heat. 

Nine-fifteen  was  an  outrageous  hour  to  go  to 
bed,  especially  since  I  sleep  little  or  not  at  all 
on  the  train,  so  I  made  my  way  to  the  smoker 
and  passed  the  time  until  nearly  eleven  with 
cigarettes  and  a  magazine. 

The  car  was  very  close.  It  was  a  warm  night, 
and  before  turning  in  I  stood  a  short  time  in 
the  vestibule.  The  train  had  been  stopping  at 
frequent  intervals,  and,  finding  the  brakeman 
there,  I  asked  the  trouble. 

It  seemed  that  there  was  a  hot-box  on  the 
next  car,  and  that  not  only  were  we  late,  but  we 


A   TORN    TELEGRAM  23 

were  delaying  the  second  section,  just  behind.  I 
was  beginning  to  feel  pleasantly  drowsy,  and 
the  air  was  growing  cooler  as  we  got  into  the 
mountains.  I  said  good  night  to  the  brakeman 
and  went  back  to  my  berth.  To  my  surprise, 
lower  ten  was  already  occupied — a  suit-case  pro 
jected  from  beneath,  a  pair  of  shoes  stood  on 
the  floor,  and  from  behind  the  curtains  came  the 
heavy,  unmistakable  breathing  of  deep  sleep.  I 
hunted  out  the  porter  and  together  we  investi 
gated. 

"Are  you  asleep,  sir?"  asked  the  porter,  lean 
ing  over  deferentially.  No  answer  forthcom 
ing,  he  opened  the  curtains  and  looked  in.  Yes, 
the  intruder  was  asleep — very  much  asleep — 
and  an  overwhelming  odor  of  whisky  proclaimed 
that  he  would  probably  remain  asleep  until 
morning.  I  was  irritated.  The  car  was  full, 
and  I  was  not  disposed  to  take  an  upper  in  order 
to  allow  this  drunken  interloper  to  sleep  com-? 
fortably  in  my  berth. 

"You'll  have  to  get  out  of  this,"  I  said,  shak 
ing  him  angrily.  But  he  merely  grunted  and 
turned  over.  As  he  did  so,  I  saw  his  features 


26      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

for  the  first  time.  It  was  the  quarrelsome  maa 
of  the  restaurant. 

I  was  less  disposed  than  ever  to  relinquish  my 
claim,  but  the  porter,  after  a  little  quiet  investi 
gation,  offered  a  solution  of  the  difficulty. 
"There's  no  one  in  lower  nine,"  he  suggested, 
pulling  open  the  curtains  just  across.  "It's 
likely  nine's  his  berth,  and  he's  made  a  mistake, 
owing  to  his  condition.  You'd  better  take  nine, 
sir." 

I  did,  with  a  firm  resolution  that  if  nine's 
rightful  owner  turned  up  later  I  should  be  just 
as  unwakable  as  the  man  opposite.  I  undressed 
leisurely,  making  sure  of  the  safety  of  the 
forged  notes,  and  placing  my  grip  as  before  be 
tween  myself  and  the  window. 

Being  a  man  of  systematic  habits,  I  arranged 
my  clothes  carefully,  putting  my  shoes  out  for 
the  porter  to  polish,  and  stowing  my  collar  and 
scarf  in  the  little  hammock  swung  for  the  pur 
pose. 

At  last,  with  my  pillows  so  arranged  that  I 
could  see  out  comfortably,  and  with  the  un 
hygienic-looking  blanket  turned  back — I  have  el- 


A   TORN    TELEGRAM  87 

ways  a  distrust  of  those  much-used  affairs — I 
prepared  to  wait  gradually  for  sleep. 

But  sleep  did  not  visit  me.  The  train  came 
to  frequent,  grating  stops,  and  I  surmised  the 
hot  box  again.  I  am  not  a  nervous  man,  but 
there  was  something  chilling  in  the  thought  of 
the  second  section  pounding  along  behind  us. 
Once,  as  I  was  dozing,  our  locomotive  whistled  a 
shrill  warning — "You  keep  back  where  you  be 
long,"  it  screamed  to  my  drowsy  ears,  and  from 
somewhere  behind  came  a  chastened  "AU-right- 
I-will." 

I  grew  more  and  more  wide-awake.  At  Cres- 
son  I  got  up  on  my  elbow  and  blinked  out  at  the 
station  lights.  Some  passengers  boarded  the 
train  there  and  I  heard  a  woman's  low  tones,  a 
southern  voice,  rich  and  full.  Then  quiet  again. 
Every  nerve  was  tense :  time  passed,  perhaps  ten 
minutes,  possibly  half  an  hour.  Then,  without 
the  slightest  warning,  as  the  train  rounded  a 
curve,  a  heavy  body  was  thrown  into  my  berth. 
The  incident,  trivial  as  it  seemed,  was  startling 
in  its  suddenness,  for  although  my  ears  were 
painfully  strained  and  awake,  I  had  heard  no 


88      THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

step  outside.  The  next  instant  the  curtain  hung 
limp  again;  still  without  a  sound,  my  disturber 
had  slipped  away  into  the  gloom  and  darkness. 
In  a  frenzy  of  walcefulness,  I  sat  up,  drew  on  a 
pair  of  slippers  and  fumbled  for  my  bath-robe. 

From  a  berth  across,  probably  lower  ten,  came 
that  particularly  aggravating  snore  which  be 
gins  lightly,  delicately,  faintly  soprano,  goes 
down  the  scale  a  note  with  every  breath,  and, 
after  keeping  the  listener  tense  with  expecta 
tion,  ends  with  an  explosion  that  tears  the  very 
air.  I  was  more  and  more  irritable :  I  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  berth  and  hoped  the  snorer  would 
choke  to  death. 

He  had  considerable  vitality,  however;  he 
withstood  one  shock  after  another  and  survived 
to  start  again  with  new  vigor.  In  desperation 
I  found  some  cigarettes  and  one  match,  piled 
my  blankets  over  my  grip,  and  drawing  the  cur 
tains  together  as  though  the  berth  were  still  oc 
cupied,  I  made  my  way  to  the  vestibule  of  the 
car. 

I  was  not  clad  for  dress  parade.  Is  it  because 
the  male  is  so  restricted  to  gloom  in  his  every- 


day  attire  that  he  blossoms  into  gaudy  colors  in 
his  pajamas  and  dressing-gowns?  It  would  take 
a  Turk  to  feel  at  home  before  an  audience  in  my 
red  and  yellow  bath-robe,  a  Christmas  remem-  - 
brance  from  Mrs.  Klopton,  with  slippers  to 
match . 

So,  naturally,  when  I  saw  a  feminine  figure 
on  the  platform,  my  first  instinct  was  to  dodge. 
The  woman,  however,  was  quicker  than  I;  she 
gave  me  a  startled  glance,  wheeled  and  disap 
peared,  with  a  flash  of  two  bronze-colored  braids, 
into  the  next  car. 

Cigarette  box  in  one  hand,  match  in  the  other, 
I  leaned  against  the  uncertain  frame  of  the  door 
and  gazed  after  her  vanished  figure.  The  moun 
tain  air  flapped  my  bath-robe  around  my  bare 
ankles,  my  one  match  burned  to  the  end  and  went 
out,  and  still  I  stared.  For  I  had  seen  on  her 
expressive  face  a  haunting  look  that  was  horror, 
nothing  less.  Heaven  knows,  I  am  not  psycho 
logical.  Emotions  have  to  be  written  large  be 
fore  I  can  read  them.  But  a  woman  in  trouble 
always  appeals  to  me,  and  this  woman  was  more 
than  that.  She  was  in  deadly  fear. 


SO      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

If  I  had  not  been  afraid  of  being  ridiculous, 
I  would  have  followed  her.    But  I  fancied  that 
the  apparition  of  a  man  in  a  red  and  yellow 
bath-robe,  with  an  unkempt  thatch  of  hair,  walk 
ing  up  to  her  and  assuring  her  that  he  would 
protect  her  would  probably  put  her  into  hys 
terics.     I  had  done  that  once  before,  when  bur 
glars  had  tried  to  break  into  the  house,  and  had 
startled  the  parlor  maid  into  bed  for  a  week. 
So  I  tried  to  assure  myself  that  I  had  imagined 
the  lady's  distress — or  caused  it,  perhaps — and 
to  dismiss  her  from  my  mind.    Perhaps  she  was 
merely  anxious  about  the  unpleasant  gentleman 
of  the  restaurant.     I  thought  smugly  that  I 
could  have  told  her  all  about  him:  that  he  was 
sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just  and  the  intoxicated 
in  a  berth  that  ought,  by  all  that  was  fair  and 
right,  to  have  been  mine,  and  that  if  I  were  tied 
.to  a  man  who  snored  like  that  I  should  have  him 
,  anaesthetized  and  his  soft  palate  put  where  it 
would  never  again  flap  like  a  loose  sail  in  tha 
wind. 

We  passed  Harrisburg  as  I  stood  there.     It 
was  starlight,  and  the  great  crests  of  the  Alle- 


A   TORN    TELEGRAM  31 

ghanies  had  given  way  to  low  hills.  At  intervals 
we  passed  smudges  of  gray  white,  no  doubt  in 
daytime  comfortable  farms,  which  McKnight 
says  is  a  good  way  of  putting  it,  the  farms  be- 1 
ing  a  lot  more  comfortable  than  the  people  on 
them. 

I  was  growing  drowsy:  the  woman  with  the 
bronze  hair  and  the  horrified  face  was  fading  in 
retrospect.  It  was  colder,  too,  and  I  turned 
with  a  shiver  to  go  in. 

As  I  did  so,  a  bit  of  paper  fluttered  into  the 
air  and  settled  on  my  sleeve,  like  a  butterfly  on 
a  gorgeous  red  and  yellow  blossom.  I  picked  it 
up  curiously  and  glanced  at  it.  It  was  part  of 
a  telegram  that  had  been  torn  into  bits. 

There  were  only  parts  of  four  words  on  the 
scrap,  but  it  left  me  puzzled  and  thoughtful. 
It  read,  " — ower  ten,  car  seve — ."  "Lower  ten, 
car  seven,"  was  my  berth — the  one  I  had  bought 
and  found  preempted. 


CHAPTER 

ACROSS  THE  AISLE 

NO  solution  offering  itself,  I  went  back  to 
my  berth.      The  snorer  across  had  ap 
parently  strangled,  or  turned  over,  and  so  after 
a  time  I  dropped  asleep,  to  be  awakened  by  the 
morning  sunlight  across  my  face. 

I  felt  for  my  watch,  yawning  prodigiously. 
I  reached  under  the  pillow  and  failed  to  find  it, 
but  something  scratched  the  back  of  my  hand. 
I  sat  up  irritably  and  nursed  the  wound,  which 
was  bleeding  a  little.  Still  drowsy,  I  felt  more 
cautiously  for  what  I  supposed  had  been  my 
scarf  pin,  but  there  was  nothing  there.  Wide 
awake  now,  I  reached  for  my  traveling-bag,  on 
the  chance  that  I  had  put  my  watch  in  there. 
I  had  drawn  the  satchel  to  me  and  had  my  hand 
on  the  lock  before  I  realized  that  it  was  not  my 
own! 

32 


ACROSS    THE   AISLE  S3 

Mine  was  of  alligator  hide.  I  had  killed  the 
beast  in  Florida,  after  the  expenditure  of  enough 
money  to  have  bought  a  house  and  enough  en 
ergy  to  have  built  one.  The  bag  I  held  in  my 
hand  was  a  black  one,  sealskin,  I  think.  The 
staggering  thought  of  what  the  loss  of  my  bag 

meant  to  me  put  my  finger  on  the  bell  and  kept 

\ 
it  there  until  the  porter  came. 

"Did  .you  ring,  sir?"  he  asked,  poking  his 
head  through  the  curtains  obsequiously.  Mc- 
Knight  objects  that  nobody  can  poke  his  head 
through  a  curtain  and  be  obsequious.  But  Pull 
man  porters  can  and  do. 

"No,"  I  snapped.  "It  rang  itself.  What  in 
thunder  do  you  mean  by  exchanging  my  valise 
for  this  one  ?  You'll  have  to  find  it  if  you  waken 
the  entire  car  to  do  it.  There  are  important 
papers  in  that  grip." 

"Porter,"  called  a  feminine  voice  from  an  up- 
/  per  berth  near-by.  "Porter,  am  I  to  dangle  here 
'all  day?" 

"Let  her  dangle,"  I  said  savagely.  "You  find 
that  bag  of  mine." 

The  porter  frowned.     Then  he  looked  at  me 


34.      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

with  injured  dignity.    "I  brought  in  your  orel* 
coat,  sir.    You  carried  your  own  valise." 

The  fellow  was  right!  In  an  excess  of  cau 
tion  I  had  refused  to  relinquish  my  alligator 
bag,  and  had  turned  over  my  other  traps  to  the 
porter.  It  was  clear  enough  then.  I  was  simply 
a  victim  of  the  usual  sleeping-car  robbery.  I 
was  in  a  lather  of  perspiration  by  that  time :  the 
lady  down  the  car  was  still  dangling  and  talk 
ing  about  it:  still  nearer  a  feminine  voice  was 
giving  quick  orders  in  French,  presumably  to  a 
maid.  The  porter  was  on  his  knees,  looking  un 
der  the  berth. 

"Not  there,  sir,"  he  said,  dusting  his  knees. 
He  was  visibly  more  cheerful,  having  been  ab 
solved  of  responsibility.  "Reckon  it  was  taken 
while  you  was  wanderin*  around  the  car  last 
night." 

"I'll  give  you  fifty  dollars  if  you  find  it,"  1^ 
said.  "A  hundred.  Reach  up  my  shoes  and- 
I'll— " 

I  stopped  abruptly.  My  eyes  were  fixed  in 
stupefied  amazement  on  a  coat  that  hung  from 
a  hook  at  the  foot  of  my  berth.  From  the  coat 


ACROSS    THE    AISLE  35 

they  traveled,  dazed,  to  the  soft-bosomed  shirt 
beside  it,  and  from  there  to  the  collar  and  cravat 
in  the  net  hammock  across  the  windows. 

"A  hundred!"  the  porter  repeated,  showing 
his  teeth.  But  I  caught  him  bj  the  arm  and 
pointed  to  the  foot  of  the  berth. 

"What — what  color's  that  coat  ?"  I  asked  un 
steadily. 

"Gray,  sir."  His  tone  was  one  of  gentle  re 
proof. 

"And — the  trousers?" 

He  reached  over  and  held  up  one  creased  leg. 
"Gray,  too,"  he  grinned. 

"Gray !"  I  could  not  believe  even  his  corrobo- 
ration  of  my  own  eyes.  "But  my  clothes  were 
blue!"  The  porter  was  amused:  he  dived  under 
the  curtains  and  brought  up  a  pair  of  shoes. 
"Your  shoes,  sir,"  he  said  with  a  flourish. 
"Reckon  you've  been  dreaming,  sir." 

Now,  there  are  two  things  I  always  avoid  in 
my  dress — possibly  an  idiosyncracy  of  my  bach 
elor  existence.  These  tabooed  articles  are  red 
neckties  and  tan  shoes.  And  not  only  were  th« 
•hoeg  the  porter  lifted  from  the  floor  of  a  gor- 


36      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

geous  shade  of  yellow,  but  the  scarf  which  was 
run  through  the  turned  over  collar  was  a  gaudj 
red.  It  took  a  full  minute  for  the  real  import  of 
things  to  penetrate  my  dazed  intelligence.  Then 
I  gave  a  vindictive  kick  at  the  offending  en 
semble. 

"They're  not  mine,  any  of  them,"  I  snarled. 
"They  are  some  other  fellow's.  I'll  sit  here  until 
I  take  root  before  I  put  them  on." 

"They're  nice  lookin'  clothes,"  the  porter  put 
in,  eying  the  red  tie  with  appreciation.  "Ain't 
everybody  would  have  left  you  anything." 

"Call  the  conductor,"  I  said  shortly.  Then 
a  possible  explanation  occurred  to  me.  "Oh, 
porter — what's  the  number  of  this  berth?" 

"Seven,  sir.  If  you  cain't  wear  those  shoes — " 

"Seven!"  In  my  relief  I  almost  shouted  it. 
"Why,  then,  it's  simple  enough.  I'm  in  the 
wrong  berth,  that's  all.  My  berth  is  nine.  Only 
— where  the  deuce  is  the  man  who  belongs  here?" 

"Likely  in  nine,  sir."  The  darky  was  enjoy 
ing  himself.  "You  and  the  other  gentleman 
just  got  mixed  in  the  night.  That's  all,  sir." 
It  was  clear  that  he  thought  I  had  been  drinking. 


ACROSS    THE   AISLE  S7 

I  drew  a  long  breath.  Of  course,  that  was  the 
explanation.  This  was  number  seven's  berth, 
that  was  his  soft  hat,  this  his  umbrella,  his  coat, 
•his  bag.  My  rage  turned  to  irritation  at  my 
self. 

The  porter  went  to  the  next  berth  and  I  could 
hear  his  softly  insinuating  voice.  "Time  to  get 
up,  sir.  Are  you  awake  ?  Time  to  get  up." 

There  was  no  response  from  number  nine.  I 
guessed  that  he  had  opened  the  curtains  and  was 
looking  in.  Then  he  came  back. 

"Number  nine's  empty,"  he  said. 

"Empty!  Do  you  mean  my  clothes  aren't 
there?"  I  demanded.  "My  valise?  Why  don't 
you  answer  me?" 

"You  doan'  give  me  time,"  he  retorted. 
"There  ain't  nothin'  there.  But  it's  been  slept 
in." 

The  disappointment  was  the  greater  for  my 
few  moments  of  hope.  T  sat  up  in  a  white  fury 
and  put  on  the  clothes  that  had  been  left  me. 
Then,  still  raging,  I  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
berth  and  put  on  the  obnoxious  tan  shoes.  The 
porter,  called  to  his  duties,  made  little  excursions 


88      THE  MAN.  IK  LOWER.  TEN 

back  to  me,  to  offer  assistance  and  to  chuckle  &t 
my  discomfiture.*  JKe  stood  by,  outwardly  de 
corous,  but  with  little  irritating  grins  of  amuse- 
iment  around  his  mouth,  when. I  finally  emerged 
with  the  red  tie  in  my  hand.. 

l"Bet  the  owner  o'f  those  clothes  didn't  become" 
<them  any  more  than  you  do,"  he ^ said,. as  he; 
jplied  the  ubiquitous  whisk  broom.. 

>"When  I  get  the  owner  of  these  clothes,"'! 
retorted  grimly,  "he.will  need  a  shroud*.  Where's! 
vthe  conductor?" 

The  conductor 'was  coming,' he  assured  me; 
also  that  there  was  no  bag  answering  the  de^ 
scription  of  mine  on  the  car.  I  slammed  my' 
tway  to  the  dressing-room,  washed,  choked  my 
fifteen  and  a  half  neck  into  a  fifteen  collar,  and 
'was  back  again  in  less  than  five  minutes.  The; 
.car,  as  well  as  its  occupants,  was  gradually  tak^! 
ing  on  a  daylight  appearance.  I  hobbled  in, 
for,  one  of  the  shoes  was  abominably  tight,  and 
.found  myself  facing  a  young  woman  in  blue: 
.with  an  unforgetable  face.  ("Three 
ready."  McKnight  says:  "That's  going 
,  J£  jou .  don't  „  count  the  Gilmore  nurse." 


She  stood,  half -turned  toward  me,  one  hand  idly 
(drooping,  the  other  steadying  her  as  she  gazed 
out  at  the  flying  landscape.  I  had  an  instant 
impression  that  I  had  met  her  somewhere,  under 
different  circumstances,  more  cheerful  ones,  I 
thought,  for  the  girl's  dejection  now  was  evi 
dent.  Beside  her,  sitting  down,  a  small  dark 
woman,  considerably  older,  was  talking  in  a 
rapid  undertone.  The  girl  nodded  indifferently 
now  and  then.  I  fancied,  although  I  was  not 
sure,  that  my  appearance  brought  a  startled 
look  into  the  young  woman's  face.  I  sat  down 
and,  hands  thrust  deep  into  the  other  man's 
pockets,  stared  ruefully  at  the  other  man's 
shoes. 

The  stage  was  set.  In  a  moment  the  curtain 
was  going  up  on  the  first  act  of  the  play.  And 
for  a  while  we  would  all  say  our  little  speeches 
and  sing  our  little  songs,  and  I,  the  villain, 
would  hold  center  stage  while  the  gallery  hissed. 

The  porter  was  standing  beside  lower  ten. 
He  had  reached  in  and  was  knocking  valiantly. 
But  his  efforts  met  with  no  response.  He  winked 
at  me  over  his  shoulder ;  then  he  unfastened  the 


40      THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

curtains  and  bent  forward.  Behind  him,  I  saw 
him  stiffen,  heard  his  muttered  exclamation,  sa\f 
the  bluish  pallor  that  spread  over  his  face  and 
neck.  As  he  retreated  a  step  the  interior  of 
lower  ten  lay  open  to  the  day. 

The  man  in  it  was  on  his  back,  the  early  morn 
ing  sun  striking  full  on  his  upturned  face.  But 
the  light  did  not  disturb  him.  A  small  stain  of 
red  dyed  the  front  of  his  night  clothes  and 
trailed  across  the  sheet:  his  half-open  eyes  were 
fixed,  without  seeing,  on  the  shining  wood  above. 

I  grasped  the  porter's  shaking  shoulders  and 
stared  down  to  where  the  train  imparted  to  the 
body  a  grisly  suggestion  of  motion.  "Good 
Lord,"  I  gasped.  "The  man's  been  murdered!" 


NUMBERS  SEVEN  AND  NINE 

AFTERWARDS,  when  I  tried  to  recall  our 
discovery  of  the  body  in  lower  ten,  I  found 
that  my  most  vivid  impression  was  not  that 
made  by  the  revelation  of  the  opened  curtain. 
I  had  an  instantaneous  picture  of  a  slender  blue- 
gowned  girl  who  seemed  to  sense  my  words 
rather  than  hear  them,  of  two  small  hands  that 
clutched  desperately  at  the  seat  beside  them. 
The  girl  in  the  aisle  stood,  bent  toward  us,  per 
plexity  and  alarm  fighting  in  her  face. 

With  twitching  hands  the  porter  attempted 
to  draw  the  curtains  together.  Then  in  a  pa 
ralysis  of  shock,  he  collapsed  on  the  edge  of  my 
berth  and  sat  there  swaying.  In  my  excitement 
I  shook  him. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  keep  your  nerve,  man," 
I  said  bruskly.  "You'll  have  every  woman  in 
the  car  in  hysterics.  And  if  you  do,  you'll  wish 
41 


4»      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

you  could  change  places  with  the  man  in  there." 
He  rolled  his  eyes. 

A  man  near,  who  had  been  reading  last 
'night's  paper,  dropped  it  quickly  and  tiptoed 
toward  us.  He  peered  between  the  partly  open 
curtains,  closed  them  quietly  and  went  back, 
ostentatiously  solemn,  to  his  seat.  The  very 
crackle  with  which  he  opened  his  paper  added  to 
the  bursting  curiosity  of  the  car.  For  the  pas 
sengers  knew  that  something  was  amiss:  I  was 
conscious  of  a  sudden  tension. 

With  the  curtains  closed  the  porter  was  more 
himself;  he  wiped  his  lips  with  a  handkerchief 
and  stood  erect. 

"It's  my  last  trip  in  this  car,"  he  remarked 
heavily.  "There's  something  wrong  with  that 
berth.  Last  trip  the  woman  in  it  took  an  over 
dose  of  some  sleeping  stuff,  and  we  found  her, 
jes'  like  that,  dead!  And  it  ain't  more'n  three 
months  now  since  there  was  twins  born  in  that 
very  spot.  No,  sir,  it  ain't  natural." 

At  that  moment  a  thin  man  with  prominent 
eyes  and  a  spare  grayish  goatee  creaked  up  the 
aisle  and  paused  beside  me. 


NUMBERS    SEVEN   AND    NINE    4S 

"Porter  sick?"  he  inquired,  taking  in  with  a 
professional  eye  the  porter's  horror-struck  face, 
my  own  excitement  and  the  slightly  gaping  cur- ,. 
tains  of  lower  ten.  He  reached  for  the  darky's 
pulse  and  pulled  out  an  old-fashioned  gold 
watch. 

"Hm!  Only  fifty!  What's  the  matter?  Had 
a  shock?"  he  asked  shrewdly. 

"Yes,"  I  answered  for  the  porter.  "We've 
both  had  one.  If  you  are  a  doctor,  I  wish  you 
would  look  at  the  man  in  the  berth  across,  lower 
ten.  I'm  afraid  it's  too  late,  but  I'm  not  ex 
perienced  in  such  matters." 

Together  we  opened  the  curtains,  and  the  doc 
tor,  bending  down,  gave  a  comprehensive  glance 
that  took  in  the  rolling  head,  the  relaxed  jaw, 
the  ugly  stain  on  the  sheet.  The  examination 
needed  only  a  moment.  Death  was  written  in 
the  clear  white  of  the  nostrils,  the  colorless  lips, 
the  smoothing  away  of  the  sinister  lines  of  the 
night  before.  With  its  new  dignity  the  face 
was  not  unhandsome :  the  gray  hair  was  still 
plentiful,  the  features  strong  and  well  cut. 

The  doctor  straightened  himself  and  turne3 


44»      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

to  me.  "Dead  for  some  time,"  he  said,  running 
a  professional  finger  over  the  stains.  "These 
are  dry  and  darkened,  you  see,  and  rigor  mortis 
is  well  established.  A  friend  of  yours?" 

"I  don't  know  him  at  all,"  I  replied.  "Never 
saw  him  but  once  before." 

"Then  you  don't  know  if  he  is  traveling 
alone?" 

"No,  he  was  not — that  is,  I  don't  know  any 
thing  about  him,"  I  corrected  myself.  It  was 
my  first  blunder:  the  doctor  glanced  up  at  me 
quickly  and  then  turned  his  attention  again  to 
the  body.  Like  a  flash  there  had  come  to  me 
the  vision  of  the  woman  with  the  bronze  hair 
and  the  tragic  face,  whom  I  had  surprised  in 
the  vestibule  between  the  cars,  somewhere  in  the 
small  hours  of  the  morning.  I  had  acted  on  my 
first  impulse — the  masculine  one  of  shielding  a 

woman. 

i 

The  doctor  had  unfastened  the  coat  of  the 
'striped  pajamas  and  exposed  the  dead  man's 
chest.  On  the  left  side  was  a  small  punctured 
wound  of  insignificant  size. 

"Very  neatly  done,"  the  doctor  said  with  ap- 


preciation.  "Couldn't  have  done  it  better  my 
self.  Right  through  the  intercostal  space:  no 
time  even  to  grunt." 

"Isn't  the  heart  around  there  somewhere?"  I 
asked.  The  medical  man  turned  toward  me  and 
smiled  austerely. 

"That's  where  it  belongs,  just  under  that 
puncture,  when  it  isn't  gadding  around  in  a 
man's  throat  or  his  boots." 

I  had  a  new  respect  for  the  doctor,  for  any 
one  indeed  who  could  crack  even  a  feeble  joke 
under  such  circumstances,  or  who  could  run  an 
impersonal  finger  over  that  wound  and  those 
stains.  Odd  how  a  healthy,  normal  man  holds 
the  medical  profession  in  half  contemptuous  re 
gard  until  he  gets  sick,  or  an  emergency  like  this 
arises,  and  then  turns  meekly  to  the  man  who 
knows  the  ins  and  outs  of  his  mortal  tenement, 
takes  his  pills  or  his  patronage,  ties  to  him  like  a 
rudderless  ship  in  a  gale. 

"Suicide,  is  it,  doctor?"  I  asked. 

He  stood  erect,  after  drawing  the  bed-cloth 
ing1  over  the  face,  and,  taking  off  his  glasses, 
he  wiped  them  slowly. 


46      THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

"No,  it  is  not  suicide,"  he  announced  deci 
sively.  "It  is  murder." 

Of  course,  I  had  expected  that,  but  the  word 
'  itself  brought  a  shiver.  I  was  just  a  bit  dizzy. 
Curious  faces  through  the  car  were  turned  to 
ward  us,  and  I  could  hear  the  porter  behind  me 
breathing  audibly.  A  stout  woman  in  negligee 
came  down  the  aisle  and  querulously  confronted 
the  porter.  She  wore  a  pink  dressing- jacket  and 
carried  portions  of  her  clothing. 

"Porter,"  she  began,  in  the  voice  of  the  lady 
who  had  "dangled,"  "is  there  a  rule  of  this 
company  that  will  allow  a  woman  to  occupy  the 
dressing-room  for  one  hour  and  curl  her  hair 
with  an  alcohol  lamp  while  respectable  people 
haven't  a  place  where  they  can  hook  their — " 

She  stopped  suddenly  and  stared  into  lower 
ten.  Her  shining  pink  cheeks  grew  pasty,  her 
jaw  fell.  I  remember  trying  to  think  of  some 
thing  to  say,  and  of  saying  nothing  at  alL 
Then — she  had  buried  her  eyeg  in  the  nonde 
script  garments  that  hung  from  her  arm  and 
tottered  back  the  way  she  had  come.  Slowly  a 
little  knot  of  men  gathered  around  us,  silent  for 


the  most  part.  The  doctor  was  making  a  search 
of  the  berth  when  the  conductor  elbowed  his  way 
through,  followed  by  the  inquisitive  man,  who 
had  evidently  summoned  him.  I  had  lost  sight, 
for  a  time,  of  the  girl  in  blue. 

"Do  it  himself?"  the  conductor  queried,  after 
a  business-like  glance  at  the  body. 

"No,  he  didn't,"  the  doctor  asserted.  "There's 
no  weapon  here,  and  the  window  is  closed.  He 
couldn't  have  thrown  it  out,  and  he  didn't  swal 
low  it.  What  on  earth  are  you  looking  fors 
man?" 

Some  one  was  on  the  floor  at  our  feet,  face 
down,  head  peering  under  the  berth.  Now  he 
got  up  without  apology,  revealing  the  man  who 
had  summoned  the  conductor.  He  was  dusty, 
alert,  cheerful,  and  he  dragged  up  with  him  the 
dead  man's  suit-case.  The  sight  of  it  brought 
back  to  me  at  once  my  own  predicament. 

"I  don't  know  whether  there's  any  connection 
or  not,  conductor,"  I  said,  "but  I  am  a  victim, 
too,  in  less  degree;  I've  been  robbed  of  every 
thing  I  possess,  except  a  red  and  yellow  bath- 
roba.  I  happened  to  be  wearing  the  bath-robe. 


48      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

which  was  probably  the  reason  the  thief  over 
looked  it." 

There  was  a  fresh  murmur  in  the  crowd. 
Somebody  laughed  nervously.  The  conductor 
was  irritated. 

"I  can't  bother  with  that  now,"  he  snarled. 
"The  railroad  company  is  responsible  for  trans 
portation,  not  for  clothes,  jewelry  and  morals. 
If  people  want  to  be  stabbed  and  robbed  in  the 
company's  cars,  it's  their  affair.  Why  didn't 
you  sleep  in  your  clothes  ?  I  do." 

I  took  an  angry  step  forward.  Then  some 
body  touched  my  arm,  and  I  unclenched  my  fist. 
I  could  understand  the  conductor's  position,  and 
beside,  in  the  law,  I  had  been  guilty  myself  of 
contributory  negligence. 

"I'm  not  trying  to  make  you  responsible,"  I 
protested,  as  amiably  as  I  could,  "and  I  believe 
the  clothes  the  thief  left  are  as  good  as  my  own. 
They  are  certainly  newer.  But  my  valise  con 
tained  valuable  papers,  and  it  is  to  your  interest 
as  well  as  mine  to  find  the  man  who  stole  it." 

"Why,  of  course,"  the  doctor  said  shrewdly. 
"Find  the  man  who  skipped  out  with  this  gen- 


NUMBERS    SEVEN    AND    NINE     49 

tleman's  clothes,  and  you've  probably  got  the 
murderer." 

"I  went  to  bed  in  lower  nine,"  I  said,  my 
mind  full  again  of  my  lost  papers,  "and  I  wak 
ened  in  number  seven.  I  was  up  in  the  night 
prowling  around,  as  I  was  unable  to  sleep,  and 
I  must  have  gone  back  to  the  wrong  berth. 
Anyhow,  until  the  porter  wakened  me  this  morn 
ing  I  knew  nothing  of  my  mistake.  In  the  in 
terval  the  thief — murderer,  too,  perhaps — must 
have  come  back,  discovered  my  error,  and  taken 
advantage  of  it  to  further  his  escape." 

The  inquisitive  man  looked  at  me  from  be 
tween  narrowed  eyelids,  ferret-like. 

"Did  any  one  on  the  train  suspect  you  of 
having  valuable  papers?"  he  inquired.  The 
crowd  was  listening  intently. 

"No  one,"  I  answered  promptly  and  posi 
tively. 

The  doctor  was  investigating  the  murdered 
man's  effects.  The  pockets  of  his  trousers  con 
tained  the  usual  miscellany  of  keys  and  small 
change,  while  in  his  hip  pocket  was  found  a 
small  pearl-handled  revolver  of  the  type  womea 


usually  keep  around.  A  gold  watch  with  a 
Masonic  charm  had  slid  down  between  the  mat 
tress  and  the  window,  while  a  showy  diamond 

stud  was  still  fastened  in  the  bosom  of  his  shirt. , 

\ 

Taken  as  a  whole,  the  personal  belongings  were 
those  of  a  man  of  some  means,  but  without  any 
particular  degree  of  breeding.  The  doctor 
heaped  them  together. 

"Either  robbery  was  not  the  motive,"  he  re 
flected,  "or  the  thief  overlooked  these  things  in 
his  hurry." 

The  latter  hypothesis  seemed  the  more  tenable, 
when,  after  a  thorough  search,  we  found  no 
pocket-book  and  less  than  a  dollar  in  small 
change. 

The  suit-case  gave  no  clue.  It  contained  one 
empty  leather-covered  flask  and  a  pint  bottle, 
«»Jso  empty,  a  change  of  linen  and  some  collar! 
with  the  laundry  mark,  S.  H.  In  the  leather 
tag  on  the  handle  was  a  card  with  the  name 
Simon  Harrington,  Pittsburg. 

The  conductor  sat  down  on  my  unmade  berth, 
across,  and  made  an  entry  of  the  name  and  ad 
dress.  Then,  on  an  old  envelope,  he  wrote  a  few 


NUMBERS    SEVEN    AND    NINE     51 

words  and  gave  it  to  the  porter,  who  disap 
peared. 

"I  guess  that's  all  I  can  do,"  he  said.  "I've 
had  enough  trouble  this  trip  to  last  for  a  year. 
They  don't  need  a  conductor  on  these  trains  any 
more;  what  they  ought  to  have  is  a  sheriff  and 
a  posse." 

The  porter  from  the  next  car  came  in  and 
whispered  to  him.  The  conductor  rose  unhap~ 


"Next  car's  caught  the  disease,"  he  grumbled. 
"Doctor,  a  woman  back  there  has  got  mumps 
or  bubonic  plague,  or  something.  Will  you 
come  back?" 

The  strange  porter  stood  aside. 

"Lady  about  the  middle  of  the  car,"  he  said, 
"in  black,  sir,  with  queer-looking  hair  —  sort  of 
•opper  color,  I  think,  sir." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  NEXT   CAB 

WITH  the  departure  of  the  conductor  and 
the  doctor,  the  group  around  lower  ten 
broke  up,  to  re-form  in  smaller  knots  through  the 
car.  The  porter  remained  on  guard.  With 
something  of  relief  I  sank  into  a  seat.  I  wanted 
to  think,  to  try  to  remember  the  details  of  the 
previous  night.  But  my  inquisitive  acquaint 
ance  had  other  intentions.  He  came  up  and  sat 
down  beside  me.  Like  the  conductor,  he  had 
taken  notes  of  the  dead  man's  belongings,  his 
name,  address,  clothing  and  the  general  circum 
stances  of  the  crime.  Now  with  his  little  note 
book  open  before  him,  he  prepared  to  enjoy  the 
minor  sensation  of  the  robbery. 

"And  now  for  the  second  victim,"  he  began 
cheerfully.  "What  is  your  name  and  address, 
please?" 

52 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  NEXT  CAR     53 

I  eyed  him  with  suspicion. 

"I  have  lost  everything  but  my  name  and  ad 
dress,"  I  parried.  "What  do  you  want  them 
for  ?  Publication  ?  " 

"Oh,  no;  dear,  no!"  he  said,  shocked  at  my 
misapprehension.  "Merely  for  my  own  enlight 
enment.  I  like  to  gather  data  of  this  kind  and 
draw  my  own  conclusions.  Most  interesting  and 
engrossing.  Once  or  twice  I  have  forestalled  the 
results  of  police  investigation — but  entirely  for 
my  own  amusement." 

I  nodded  tolerantly.  Most  of  us  have  hob 
bies  ;  I  knew  a  man  once  who  carried  his  hand 
kerchief  up  his  sleeve  and  had  a  mania  for  old 
colored  prints  cut  out  of  Godey's  Lady's  Boole. 

"I  use  that  inductive  method  originated  by 
Foe  and  followed  since  with  such  success  by 
Conan  Doyle.  Have  you  ever  read  Gaboriau? 
Ah,  you  have  missed  a  treat,  indeed.  And  now, 
to  get  down  to  business,  what  is  the  name  of  our 
escaped  thief  and  probable  murderer?" 

"How  on  earth  do  I  know?"  I  demanded  im 
patiently.  "He  didn't  write  it  in  blood  any 
where,  did  he?" 


54      THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

The  little  man  looked  hurt  and  disappointed 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  asked,  "that  th« 
pockets  of  those  clothes  are  entirely  empty?" 

The  pockets!  In  the  excitement  I  had  for 
gotten  entirely  the  sealskin  grip  which  the  por 
ter  now  sat  at  my  feet,  and  I  had  not  investi 
gated  the  pockets  at  all.  With  the  inquisitive 
man's  pencil  taking  note  of  everything  that  I 
found,  I  emptied  them  on  the  opposite  seat. 

Upper  left-hand  waist-coat,  two  lead  pencils 
and  a  fountain  pen;  lower  right  waist-coat, 
match-box  and  a  small  stamp  book;  right-hand 
pocket  coat,  pair  of  gray  suede  gloves,  new, 
tiize  seven  and  a  half;  left-hand  pocket,  gun- 
metal  cigarette  case  studded  with  pearls,  half- 
full  of  Egyptian  cigarettes.  The  trousers 
pockets  contained  a  gold  penknife,  a  small 
amount  of  money  in  bills  and  change,  and  a 
handkerchief  with  the  initial  "S"  on  it. 

Further  search  through  the  coat  discovered  a 
card-case  with  cards  bearing  the  name  Henrj 
Pinckney  Sullivan,  and  a  leather  flask  with  gold 
mountings,  filled  with  what  seemed  to  be  very 
fair  whisky,  and  monogrammed  H.  P.  S. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  NEXT  CAR     55 

"His  name  evidently  is  Henry  Pinckney  Sula 
livan,"  said  the  cheerful  follower  of  Poe,  as  he 
wrote  it  down.  "Address  as  yet  unknown* 
Blond,  probably.  Have  you  noticed  that  it  ii 
almost  always  the  blond  men  who  affect  a  very 
light  gray,  with  a  touch  of  red  in  the  scarf? 
Fact,  I  assure  you.  I  kept  a  record  once  of  the 
summer  attire  of  men,  and  ninety  per  cent,  fol 
lowed  my  rule.  Dark  men  like  you  affect  navy 
blue,  or  brown." 

In  spite  of  myself  I  was  amused  at  the  man's 
shrewdness. 

"Yes;  the  suit  he  took  was  dark — a  blue,"  I 
said. 

He  rubbed  his  hands  and  smiled  at  me  delight- 
edly. 

"Then  you  wore  black  shoes,  not  tan,"  he 
said,  with  a  glance  at  the  aggressive  yellow  ones 
I  wore. 

"Right  again,"  I  acknowledged.  "Black  low 
shoes  and  black  embroidered  hose.  If  you  keep 
on  you'll  have  a  motive  for  the  crime,  and  the 
murderer's  present  place  of  hiding.  And  if  you 
eome  back  to  the  smoker  with  me,  I'll  give  you 


56      THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

an  opportunity  to  judge  if  he  knew  good  whisky 
from  bad." 

I  put  the  articles  from  the  pockets  back  again 
and  got  up.  "I  wonder  if  there  is  a  diner  on  ?" 
I  said.  "I  need  something  sustaining  after  all 
this." 

I  was  conscious  then  of  some  one  at  my  elbow. 
I  turned  to  see  the  young  woman  whose  face  was 
so  vaguely  familiar.  In  the  very  act  of  speaking 
she  drew  back  suddenly  and  colored. 

"Oh, — I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  hurried 
ly,  "I — thought  you  were — some  one  else."  She 
was  looking  in  a  puzzled  fashion  at  my  coat.  I 
felt  all  the  cringing  guilt  of  a  man  who  has  ac 
cidentally  picked  up  the  wrong  umbrella:  my 
borrowed  collar  sat  tight  on  my  neck. 

"I'm.  sorry,"  I  said  idiotically.  "I'm  sorry, 
but — I'm  not."  I  have  learned  since  that  she 
has  bright  brown  hair,  with  a  loose  wave  in  it 
that  drops  over  her  ears,  and  dark  blue  eyes  with 
black  lashes  and — but  what  does  it  matter?  One 
enjoys  a  picture  as  a  whole :  not  as  the  sum  of  its 
parts. 

She  saw  the  flask  then,  and  her  errand  came 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  NEXT  CAB    57 

back  to  her.  "One  of  the  ladies  at  the  end  of 
ear  has  fainted,"  she  explained.  "I  thought 
perhaps  a  stimulant — " 

I  picked  up  the  flask  at  once  and  followed  my 
guide  down  the  aisle.  Two  or  three  women  were 
working  over  the  woman  who  had  fainted.  They 
had  opened  her  collar  and  taken  out  her  hair 
pins,  whatever  good  that  might  do.  The  stout 
woman  was  vigorously  rubbing  her  wrists,  with 
the  idea,  no  doubt,  of  working  up  her  pulse  i 
The  unconscious  woman  was  the  one  for  whom 
I  had  secured  lower  eleven  at  the  station. 

I  poured  a  little  liquor  in  a  bungling  maseu- 
line  fashion  between  her  lips  as  she  leaned  back, 
with  closed  eyes.  She  choked,  coughed,  and  ral 
lied  somewhat. 

"Poor  thing,"  said  the  stout  lady.  "As  she 
lies  back  that  way  I  could  almost  think  it  was  my 
mother ;  she  used  to  faint  so  much." 

"It  would  make  anybody  faint,"  chimed  In  an 
other.  "Murder  and  robbery  in  one  night  and 
on  one  car.  I'm  thankful  I  always  wear  my 
rings  in  a  bag  around  my  neck — even  if  they  do 
get  under  me  and  keep  me  awake." 


38      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

The  girl  in  blue  was  looking  at  us  with  wide, 
startled  eyes.  I  saw  her  pale  a  little,  saw  the 
quick,  apprehensive  glance  which  she  threw  at 
her  traveling  companion,  the  small  woman  I  had 
noticed  before.  There  was  an  exchange — al 
most  a  clash — of  glances.  The  small  woman 
frowned.  That  was  all.  I  turned  my  attention 
again  to  my  patient. 

She  had  revived  somewhat,  and  now  she  asked 
to  have  the  window  opened.  The  train  had 
stopped  again  and  the  car  was  oppressively  hot. 
People  around  were  looking  at  their  watches  and 
grumbling  over  the  delay.  The  doctor  bustled 
in  with  a  remark  about  its  being  his  busy  day. 
The  amateur  detective  and  the  porter  together 
mounted  guard  over  lower  ten.  Outside  the  heat 
rose  in  shimmering  waves  from  the  tracks:  the 
very  wood  of  the  car  was  hot  to  touch.  A  Cam- 
berwell  Beauty  darted  through  the  open  door 
and  made  its  way,  in  erratic  plunges,  great 
wings  waving,  down  the  sunny  aisle.  All  around 
lay  the  peace  of  harvested  fields,  the  quiet  of  the 
country* 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE  GIRL  IN  BLUM 

1WAS   growing  more   and  more  irritable* 
The  thought  of  what  the  loss  of  the  note* 
meant  was  fast  crowding  the  murder  to  the  back 
of  my  mind.     The  forced  inaction  was  intol 
erable. 

The  porter  had  reported  no  bag  answering 
the  description  of  mine  on  the  train,  but  I 
was  disposed  to  make  my  own  investigation. 
I  made  a  tour  of  the  cars,  scrutinizing  every 
variety  of  hand  luggage,  ranging  from,  lux 
urious  English  bags  with  gold  mountings  to  the 
wicker  nondescripts  of  the  day  coach  at  the 
rear.  I  was  not  alone  in  my  quest,  for  the  girl 
in  blue  was  just  ahead  of  me.  Car  by  car  she 
preceded  me  through  the  train,  unconscious  that 
I  was  behind  her,  looking  at  each  passenger 
as  c-he  passed.  I  fancied  the  proceeding  was 
59 


60      THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

distasteful,  but  that  she  had  determined  on  a 
course  and  was  carrying  it  through.  We 
reached  the  end  of  the  train  almost  together — 
empty-handed,  both  of  us. 

The  girl  went  out  to  the  platform.  When 
she  saw  me  she  moved  aside,  and  I  stepped  out 
beside  her.  Behind  us  the  track  curved  sharply ; 
the  early  sunshine  threw  the  train,  in  long  black 
shadow,  orer  the  hot  earth.  Forward  some 
where  they  were  hammering.  The  girl  said 
nothing,  but  her  profile  was  strained  and  anx 
ious. 

**I — if  you  have  lost  anything,"  I  began,  "I 
wish  you  would  let  me  try  to  help.  Not  that 
my  own  success  is  anything  to  boast  of." 

She  hardly  glanced  at  me.  It  was  not  flat 
tering. 

"I  have  not  been  robbed,  if  that  is  what  you 
mean,"  she  replied  quietly.  "I  am — perplexed. 
That  is  all." 

There  was  nothing  to  say  to  that.  I  lifted 
m/  hat — the  other  fellow's  hat — and  turned  t« 
go  back  to  my  car.  Two  or  three  members  of 
tk«  train  crew,  including  the  conductor,  were 


THE   GIRL   IN   BLUE  61 

standing  in  the  shadow  talking.  And  at  that 
moment,  from  a  farm-house  near  came  the  swift 
clang  of  the  breakfast  bell,  calling  in  the  hands 
from  barn  and  pasture.  I  turned  back  to  the 
girl. 

"We  may  be  here  for  an  hour,"  I  said,  "and 
there  is  no  buffet  car  on.  If  I  remember  my 
youth,  that  bell  means  ham  and  eggs  and  country 
butter  and  coif  ee.  If  you  care  to  run  the  risk — " 

"I  am  not  hungry,"  she  said,  "but  perhaps 
a,  cup  of  coffee — dear  me,  I  believe  I  am  hun 
gry,"  she  finished.  "Only — "  She  glanced  back 
ef  her. 

"I  can  bring  your  companion,"  I  suggested, 
without  enthusiasm.  But  the  young  woman 
shook  her  head. 

"She  is  not  hungry,"  she  objected,  "and  she 
is  very — well,  I  know  she  wouldn't  come.  Do 
you  suppose  we  could  make  it  if  we  run?" 

"I  haven't  any  idea,"  I  said  cheerfully.  "Any 
eld  train  would  be  better  than  thia  one,  if  it 
does  leave  us  behind." 

"Yes.  Any  train  would  be  better  than  tnls 
one,"  she  repeated  gravely.  I  found  myseU 


d2      THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

watching  her  changing  expression.  I  had 
spoken  two  dozen  words  to  her  and  already  I 
felt  that  I  knew  the  lights  and  shades  in  her 
voice, — I,  who  had  always  known  how  a  woman 
rode  to  hounds,  and  who  never  could  have  told 
the  color  of  her  hair. 

I  stepped  down  on  the  ties  and  turned  to  as 
sist  her,  and  together  we  walked  back  to  where 
the  conductor  and  the  porter  from  our  car  were 
in  close  conversation.  Instinctively  my  hand 
went  to  my  cigarette  pocket  and  came  out 
empty.  She  saw  the  gesture. 

"If  you  want  to  smoke,  you  may,"  she  said. 
"I  have  a  big  cousin  who  smokes  all  the  time. 
He  says  I  am  'kippered.'  * 

I  drew  out  the  gun-metal  cigarette  case  and 
opened  it.  But  this  most  commonplace  action 
had  an  extraordinary  result:  the  girl  beside  me 
stopped  dead  still  and  stood  staring  at  it  with 
fascinated  eyes. 

"Is — where  did  you  get  that?"  she  demand 
ed,  with  a  catch  in  her  voice ;  her  gaze  still  fixed 
on  the  cigarette  case. 

"Then  you  haven't  heard  the  rest  of  the  trag~ 


THE   GIRL   IN   BLUB  6» 

edy?"  I  asked,  holding  out  the  case.  "It's 
frightfully  bad  luck  for  me,  but  it  makes  a 
good  story.  You  see — " 

At  that  moment  the  conductor  and  porteri 
ceased  their  colloquy.  The  conductor  came  di 
rectly  toward  me,  tugging  as  he  came  at  hi* 
bristling  gray  mustache. 

"I  would  like  to  talk  to  you  in  the  car,"  he 
said  to  me,  with  a  curious  glance  at  the  young 
lady. 

"Can't  it  wait?"  I  objected.  "We  are  on  our 
way  to  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  slice  of  bacon.  Be 
merciful,  as  you  are  powerful." 

"Fm  afraid  the  breakfast  will  have  to  wait," 
he  replied.  "I  won't  keep  you  long."  There 
was  a  note  of  authority  in  his  voice  which  I  re 
sented;  but,  after  all,  the  circumstances  were 
unusual. 

"We'll  have  to  defer  that  cup  of  coffee  for  a 
while,"  I  said  to  the  girl;  "but  don't  despair; 
there's  breakfast  somewhere." 

As  we  entered  the  car,  she  stood  aside,  but  I 
felt  rather  than  saw  that  she  followed  us.  I 
was  surprised  to  see  a  half  dozen  men  gathered 


0*      THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

around  the  berth  in  which  I  had  wakened,  num 
ber  seven.  It  had  not  yet  been  made  up. 

As  we  passed  along  the  aisle,  I  was  conscious 
of  a  new  expression  on  the  faces  of  the  pas 
sengers.  The  tall  woman  who  had  fainted  was 
rjearching  my  face  with  narrowed  eyes,  while  the 
stout  woman  of  the  kindly  heart  avoided  my 
gaze,  and  pretended  to  look  out  the  window. 

As  we  pushed  our  way  through  the  group, 
I  fancied  that  it  closed  around  me  ominously. 
The  conductor  said  nothing,  but  led  the  way 
without  ceremony  to  the  side  of  the  berth. 

'*What's  the  matter?"  I  inquired.  I  was  pu»- 
zled,  but  not  apprehensive.  "Have  you  some  of 
my  things  ?  I'd  be  thankful  even  for  my  shoe* ; 
these  are  confoundedly  tight." 

Nobody  spoke,  and  I  fell  silent,  too.  For  one 
of  the  pillows  had  been  turned  over,  and  the 
under  side  of  the  white  case  was  streaked  with 
{brownish  stains.  I  think  it  was  a  perceptible 
time  before  I  realized  that  the  stains  were  blood, 
and  that  the  faces  around  were  filled  with  sus 
picion  and  distrust. 

"Why,  it — that  looks  like  blood,"  I  said  vacu- 


THE    GIRL    IN    BLUE  65 

ously.  There  was  an  incessant  pounding  in  my 
ears,  and  the  conductor's  voice  came  from  far 
off. 

"It  is  blood,"  he  asserted  grimly. 

I  looked  around  with  a  dizzy  attempt  at  non 
chalance.  "Even  if  it  is,"  I  remonstrated, 
"surely  you  don't  suppose  for  a  moment  that  I 
know  anything  about  it!" 

The  amateur  detective  elbowed  his  way  in. 
He  had  a  scrap  of  transparent  paper  in  his 
hand,  and  a  pencil. 

"I  would  like  permission  to  trace  the  stains," 
he  began  eagerly.  "Also" — to  me — "if  you 
will  kindly  jab  your  finger  with  a  pin — needle 
— anything — " 

"If  you  don't  keep  out  of  this,"  the  conduc 
tor  said  savagely,  "I  will  do  some  jabbing  my 
self.  As  for  you,  sir — "  he  turned  to  me.  I 
was  absolutely  innocent,  but  I  knew  that  I  pre 
sented  a  typical  picture  of  guilt;  I  was  covered 
with  cold  sweat,  and  the  pounding  in  my  ears 
kept  up  dizzily.  "As  for  you,  sir — " 

The  irrepressible  amateur  detective  made  a 
quick  pounce  at  the  pillow  and  pushed  back  the 


66      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

•over.  Before  our  incredulous  eyes  he  drew  out 
*  narrow  steel  dirk  which  had  been  buried  to 
the  small  cross  that  served  as  a  head. 

There  was  a  chorus  of  voices  around,  a  quick 
surging  forward  of  the  crowd.  So  that  was 
what  had  scratched  my  hand!  I  buried  the 
wound  in  my  coat  pocket. 

"Well,"  I  said,  trying  to  speak  naturally, 
"doesn/'t  that  prove  what  I  have  been  telling  you  ? 
The  man  who  committed  the  murder  belonged 
to  this  berth,  and  made  an  exchange  in  some 
way  after  the  crime.  How  do  you  know  he  didn't 
change  the  tags  so  I  would  come  back  to  this 
berth  ?"  This  was  an  inspiration ;  I  was  pleased 
with  it.  "That's  what  he  did,  he  changed  the 
tags,"  I  reiterated. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  assent  around.  The 
doctor,  who  was  standing  beside  me,  put  his  hand 
on  my  arm.  "If  this  gentleman  committed  this 
crime,  and  I  for  one  feel  sure  he  did  not,  then) 
who  is  the  fellow  who  got  away?  And  why  did 
he  go?" 

"We  have  only  one  man's  word  for  that,"  the 
conductor  snarled.  *Fve  traveled  some  in  these 


THE    GIRL   IN   BLUE  6T 

ears  myself,  and  no  one  ever  changed  berths 
with  me." 

Somebody  on  the  edge  of  the  group  asserted 
that  hereafter  he  would  travel  by  daylight.  I 
glanced  up  and  caught  the  eye  of  the  girl  in 
blue. 

"They  are  all  mad,"  she  said.  Her  tone  was 
low,  but  I  heard  her  distinctly.  "Don't  take 
them  seriously  enough  to  defend  yourself." 

"I  am  glad  you  think  I  didn't  do  it,"  I  ob 
served  meekly,  over  the  crowd.  "Nothing  else 
is  of  any  importance." 

The  conductor  had  pulled  out  his  note-book 
again.  "Your  name,  please,"  he  said  gruffly. 

"Lawrence   Blakeley,   Washington." 

"Your  occupation?" 

"Attorney.  A  member  of  the  firm  of  Blake- 
ley  and  McKnight." 

"Mr.  Blakeley,  you  say  you  have  occupied 
the  wrong  berth  and  have  been  robbed.  Do  you 
know  anything  of  the  man  who  did  it?" 

"Only  from  what  he  left  behind,"  I  answered. 
"These  clothes — " 

"They  fit  you,"  he  said  with  quick  suspicion. 


"Isn't  that  rather  a  coincidence?  You  are  a 
large  man." 

"Good  Heavens,"  I  retorted,  stung  into  fury, 
"do  I  look  like  a  man  who  would  wear  this  kind 
of  a  necktie?  Do  you  suppose  I  carry  purple 
and  green  barred  silk  handkerchiefs?  Would 
any  man  in  his  senses  wear  a  pair  of  shoes  a  full 
size  too  small?" 

The  conductor  was  inclined  to  hedge.  "You 
will  have  to  grant  that  I  am  in  a  peculiar  posi 
tion,"  he  said.  "I  have  only  your  word  as  to 
the  exchange  of  berths,  and  you  understand  I 
am  merely  doing  my  duty.  Are  there  any  clue* 
in  the  pockets?" 

For  the  second  time  I  emptied  them  of  their 
contents,  which  he  noted.  "Is  that  all?"  he  fiiy- 
ished.  "There  was  nothing  else?" 

"Nothing." 

"That's  not  all,  sir,"  broke  in  the  porter, 
stepping  forward.  "There  was  a  small  black 
satchel." 

"That's  so,"  I  exclaimed.  "I  forgot  the  bag. 
I  don't  even  know  where  it  is." 

The  easily  swayed  crowd  looked  suspicious 


THE    GIRL   IN   BLUE  69 

again.  I've  grown  so  accustomed  to  reading 
the  faces  of  a  jury,  seeing  them  swing  from 
doubt  to  belief,  and  back  again  to  doubt,  that 
l  t  instinctively  watch  expressions.  I  saw  that  my 
forgetfulness  had  done  me  harm — that  suspicion 
was  roused  again. 

The  bag  was  found  a  couple  of  seats  away, 
under  somebody's  raincoat — another  dubious  cir 
cumstance.  Was  I  hiding  it?  It  was  brought 
to  the  berth  and  placed  beside  the  conductor, 
who  opened  it  at  once. 

It  contained  the  usual  traveling  impedimenta 
— change  of  linen,  collars,  handkerchiefs,  a 
bronze-green  scarf,  and  a  safety  razor.  But  the 
attention  of  the  crowd  riveted  itself  on  a  flat, 
Russia  leather  wallet,  around  which  a  heavy  gum 
band  was  wrapped,  and  which  bore  in  gilt  letters 
the  name  "Simon  Harrington." 


CHAPTER   VH 

A  FINE   GOLD   CHAIN 

fT!  HE  conductor  held  it  out  to  me,  his  face 
JL  sternly  accusing. 

"Is  this  another  coincidence?"  he  asked.  "Did 
the  man  who  left  you  his  clothes  and  the  barred 
silk  handkerchief  and  the  tight  shoes  leave  you 
the  spoil  of  the  murder?" 

The  men  standing  around  had  drawn  off  a 
little,  and  I  saw  the  absolute  futility  of  any  re 
monstrance.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  fly,  who,  in 
these  hygienic  days,  finding  no  cobwebs  to  en 
tangle  him,  is  caught  in  a  sheet  of  fly  paper, 
finds  himself  more  and  more  mired,  and  is  finally 
quiet  with  the  sticky  stillness  of  despair? 

Well,  I  was  the  fly.    I  had  seen  too  much  of 

circumstantial  evidence  to  have  any  belief  that 

the  establishing  of  my   identity   would  weighi 

much  against  the  other  incriminating  details.    It 

70 


A  FINE    GOLD    CHAIN  *1 

meant  imprisonment  and  trial,  probably,  with 
all  the  notoriety  and  loss  of  practice  they  would 
entail.  A  man  thinks  quickly  at  a  time  like 
that.  All  the  probable  consequences  of  the  find 
ing  of  that  pocket-book  flashed  through  my 
mind  as  I  extended  my  hand  to  take  it.  Then 
I  drew  my  arm  back. 

"I  don't  want  it,"  I  said.  "Look  inside. 
Maybe  the  other  man  took  the  money  and  left  the 
wallet." 

The  conductor  opened  it,  and  again  there  was 
a  curious  surging  forward  of  the  crowd.  To  my 
intense  disappointment  the  money  was  still  there. 

I  stood  blankly  miserable  while  it  was  counted 
out — five  one-hundred-dollar  bills,  six  twenties, 
and  some  fives  and  ones  that  brought  the  total  to 
six  hundred  and  fifty  dollars. 

The  little  man  with  the  note-book  insisted  on 
taking  the  numbers  of  the  notes,  to  the  conduct 
or's  annoyance.  It  was  immaterial  to  me:  small 
things  had  lost  their  power  to  irritate.  I  was 
seeing  myself  in  the  prisoner's  box,  going 
through  all  the  nerve-racking  routine  of  a  trial 
for  murder — the  challenging  of  the  jury,  the 


72      THE    MAN    IN   LOWER    TEN 

endless  cross-examinations,  the  alternate  hope 
and  fear.  I  believe  I  said  before  that  I  had  no 
nerves,  but  for  a  few  minutes  that  morning  I 
was  as  near  as  a  man  ever  comes  to  hysteria. 

I  folded  my  arms  and  gave  myself  a  mental 
shake.  I  seemed  to  be  the  center  of  a  hundred 
eyes,  expressing  every  shade  of  doubt  and  dis 
trust,  but  I  tried  not  to  flinch.  Then  some  one 
created  a  diversion. 

The  amateur  detective  was  busy  again  with 
the  sealskin  bag,  investigating  the  make  of  the 
safety  razor  and  the  manufacturer's  name  on 
the  bronze-green  tie.  Now,  however,  he  paused 
and  frowned,  as  though  some  pet  theory  had 
been  upset. 

Then  from  a  corner  of  the  bag  he  drew  out 
and  held  up  for  our  inspection  some  three  inches 
of  fine  gold  chain,  one  end  of  which  was  black 
ened  and  stained  with  blood ! 

The  conductor  held  out  his  hand  for  it,  but 
the  little  man  was  not  ready  to  give  it  up.  He 
turned  to  me. 

"You  say  no  watch  was  left  you?  Was  thert 
a  piece  of  chain  like  that?" 


A   FINE    GOLD    CHAIN  73 

"No  chain  at  all,"  I  said  sulkily.  "No  jew 
elry  of  any  kind,  except  plain  gold  buttons  in 
the  shirt  I  am  wearing." 

"Where  are  your  glasses?"  he  threw  at  me 
suddenly:  instinctively  my  hand  went  to  my 
eyes.  My  glasses  had  been  gone  all  morning, 
and  I  had  not  even  noticed  their  absence.  The 
little  man  smiled  cynically  and  held  out  the 
chain. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  examine  this,"  he  insisted. 
"Isn't  it  a  part  of  the  fine  gold  chain  you  wear 
over  your  ear?" 

I  didn't  want  to  touch  the  thing :  the  stain  at 
the  end  made  me  shudder.  But  with  a  baker's 
dozen  of  suspicious  eyes — well,  we'll  say  four 
teen:  there  were  no  one-eyed  men — I  took  the 
fragment  in  the  tips  of  my  fingers  and  looked  aw 
it  helplessly. 

"Very  fine  chains  are  much  alike,"  I  managed 
to  say.  "For  all  I  know,  this  may  be  mine,  but 
I  don't  know  how  it  got  into  that  sealskin  bag.  I 
never  saw  the  bag  until  this  morning  after  day- 
light." 

"He  admits  that  he  had  the  bag,"  somebody 


T4      THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

said  behind  me.  "How  did  you  guess  that  he 
wore  glasses,  anyhow?"  to  the  amateur  sleuth. 

That  gentleman  cleared  his  throat.  "There 
were  two  reasons,"  he  said,  "for  suspecting  it. 
When  you  see  a  man  with  the  lines  of  his  face 
drooping,  a  healthy  individual  with  a  pensive 
eye, — suspect  astigmatism.  Besides,  this  gentle 
man  has  a  pronounced  line  across  the  bridge  of 
his  nose  and  a  mark  on  his  ear  from  the  chain." 

After  this  remarkable  exhibition  of  the  theo 
retical  as  combined  with  the  practical,  he  sank 
into  a  seat  near-by,  and  still  holding  the  chain, 
sat  with  closed  eyes  and  pursed  lips.  It  was  evi 
dent  to  all  the  car  that  the  solution  of  the  mys 
tery  was  a  question  of  moments.  Once  he  bent 
forward  eagerly  and  putting  the  chain  on  the 
window-sill,  proceeded  to  go  over  it  with  a  pocket 
magnifying  glass,  only  to  shake  his  head  in  dis 
appointment.  All  the  people  around  shook  their 
heads  too,  although  they  had  not  the  slightest 
idea  what  it  was  about. 

The  pounding  in  my  ears  began  again.  The 
group  around  me  seemed  to  be  suddenly  motion 
less  in  the  very  act  of  moving,  as  if  a  hypnotist 


A   FINE    GOLD    CHAIN  7S 

had  called  "Rigid !"  The  girl  in  blue  was  look 
ing  at  me,  and  above  the  din  I  thought  she  said 
she  must  speak  to  me — something  vital.  The 
pounding  grew  louder  and  merged  into  a  scream. 
With  a  grinding  and  splintering  the  car  rose 
under  my  feet.  Then  it  fell  away  into  darknew. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  SECOND  SECTION 

HAVE  you  ever  been  picked  up  out  of  your 
three-meals-a-day  life,  whirled  around  in 
a  tornado  of  events,  and  landed  in  a  situation  so 
grotesque  and  yet  so  horrible  that  you  laugh 
even  while  you  are  groaning,  and  straining  at  its 
hopelessness?  McKnight  says  that  is  hysteria, 
and  that  no  man  worthy  of  the  name  ever  admits 
to  it. 

Also,  as  McKnight  says,  it  sounds  like  a  tank 
drama.  Just  as  the  revolving  saw  is  about  to 
cut  the  hero  into  stove  lengths,  the  second  villain 
blows  up  the  sawmill.  The  hero  goes  up  through 
the  roof  and  alights  on  the  bank  of  a  stream  at 
the  feet  of  his  lady  love,  who  is  making  daisy 
chains. 

Nevertheless,  when  I  was  safely  home  again, 
with  Mrs.  Klopton  brewing  strange  drinks  that 
76 


THE    SECOND    SECTION  77 

came  in  paper  packets  from  the  pharmacy,  and 
that  smelled  to  heaven,  I  remember  staggering 
to  the  door  and  closing  it,  and  then  going  back 
to  bed  and  howling  out  the  absurdity  and  the 
madness  of  the  whole  thing.  And  while  I  laughed 
my  very  soul  was  sick,  for  the  girl  was  gone  by 
that  time,  and  I  knew  by  all  the  loyalty  that  an 
swers  between  men  for  honor  that  I  would  have 
to  put  her  out  of  my  mind. 

And  yet,  all  the  night  that  followed,  filled  as 
it  was  with  the  shrieking  demons  of  pain,  I  saw 
her  as  I  had  seen  her  last,  in  the  queer  hat  with 
green  ribbons.  I  told  the  doctor  this,  guard 
edly,  the  next  morning,  and  he  said  it  was  the 
morphia,  ana  that  I  was  lucky  not  to  have  seen 
a  row  of  devils  with  green  tails. 

I  don't  know  anything  about  the  wreck  of 
September  ninth  last.  You  who  swallowed  the 
details  with  your  coffee  and  digested  the  horrors 
with  your  chop,  probably  know  a  great  deal 
more  than  I  do.  I  remember  very  distinctly  that 
the  jumping  and  throbbing  in  my  arm  brought 
me  back  to  a  world  that  at  first  was  nothing  but 
eky,  a  heap  of  clouds  that  I  thought  hazily 


*8      THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

were  the  meringue  on  a  blue  charlotte  russe.  As 
the  sense  of  hearing  was  slowly  added  to  vision, 
.1  heard  a  woman  near  me  sobbing  that  she  had 
lost  her  hat  pin,  and  she  couldn't  keep  her 
hat  on. 

I  think  I  dropped  back  into  unconsciousness 
again,  for  the  next  thing  I  remember  was  of  my 
blue  patch  of  sky  clouded  with  smoke,  of  a 
strange  roaring  and  crackling,  of  a  rain  of  fiery 
sparks  on  my  face  and  of  somebody  beating  at 
me  with  feeble  hands.  I  opened  my  eyes  and 
closed  them  again :  the  girl  in  blue  was  bending 
over  me.  With  that  imperviousness  to  big  things 
and  keenness  to  small  that  is  the  first  effect  of 
shock,  I  tried  to  be  facetious,  when  a  spark 
stung  my  cheek. 

"You  will  have  to  rouse  yourself!"  the  girl 
was  repeating  desperately.  "You've  been  on 
fire  twice  already."  A  piece  of  striped  ticking 
floated  slowly  over  my  head.  As  the  wind  caught 
it  its  charring  edges  leaped  into  flame. 

"Looks  like  a  kite,  doesn't  it?"  I  remarked 
cheerfully.  And  then,  as  my  arm  gave  an  excru 
ciating  throb — "Jove,  how  my  arm  hurts !" 


70 

The  girl  bent  over  and  spoke  slowly,  distinct 
ly,  as  one  might  speak  to  a  deaf  person  or  a 
child. 

"Listen,  Mr.   Blakeley,"  she  said  earnestly, '' 
"You  must  rouse  yourself.     There  has  been  a 
terrible  accident.     The  second  section  ran  into 
us.    The  wreck  is  burning  now,  and  if  we  don't 
move,  we  will  catch  fire.    Do  you  hear?" 

Her  voice  and  my  arm  were  bringing  me  to 
my  senses.  "I  hear,"  I  said.  "I — I'll  sit  up  ID 
a  second.  Are  you  hurt?" 

"No,  only  bruised.  Do  you  think  you  cam 
walk?" 

I  drew  up  one  foot  after  another,  gingerly. 

"They  seem  to  move  all  right,"  I  remarked 
dubiously.  "Would  you  mind  telling  me  where 
the  back  of  my  head  has  gone?  I  can't  help 
thinking  it  isn't  there." 

She  made  a  quick  examination.  "It's  pretty 
badly  bumped,"  she  said.  "You  must  have 
fallen  on  it." 

I  had  got  up  on  my  uninjured  elbow  by  that 
time,  but  the  pain  threw  me  back.  "Don't  look 
at  the  wreck,"  I  entreated  her.  "It's  no  fight 


80      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

for  a  woman.  If — if  there  is  any  way  to  tie  up 
this  arm,  I  might  be  able  to  do  something. 
There  may  be  people  under  those  cars !" 

"Then  it  is  too  late  to  help,"  she  replied  sol 
emnly.  A  little  shower  of  feathers,  each  carry 
ing  its  fiery  lamp,  blew  over  us  from  some  burn 
ing  pillow.  A  part  of  the  wreck  collapsed  with 
a  crash.  In  a  resolute  endeavor  to  play  a  man's 
part  in  the  tragedy  going  on  all  around,  I  got 
to  my  knees.  Then  I  realized  what  I  had  not 
noticed  before :  the  hand  and  wrist  of  the  broken 
left  arm  were  jammed  through  the  handle  of  the 
sealskin  grip.  I  gasped  and  sat  down  suddenly. 

"You  must  not  do  that,"  the  girl  insisted.  I 
noticed  now  that  she  kept  her  back  to  the  wreck, 
her  eyes  averted.  "The  weight  of  the  traveling- 
bag  must  be  agony.  Let  me  support  the  valise 
until  we  get  back  a  few  yards.  Then  you  must 
lie  down  until  we  can  get  it  cut  off." 

"Will  it  have  to  be  cut  off?"  I  asked  as  calmly 
as  possible.  There  were  red-hot  stabs  of  agony 
clear  to  my  neck,  but  we  were  moving  slowly  away 
from  the  track. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  with  dumfounding  cool- 


THE    SECOND    SECTION  81 

ness.     "If  I  had  a  knife  I  could  do  it  myself. 
You  might  sit  here  and  lean  against  this  fence." 

By  that  time  my  returning  faculties  had  real 
ized  that  she  was  going  to  cut  off  the  satchel, 
not  the  arm.  The  dizziness  was  leaving  and  I 
was  gradually  becoming  myself. 

"If  you  pull,  it  might  come,"  I  suggested* 
"And  with  that  weight  gone,  I  think  I  will  cease 
to  be  five  feet  eleven  inches  of  baby." 

She  tried  gently  to  loosen  the  handle,  but  it 
would  not  move,  and  at  last,  with  great  drops  of 
cold  perspiration  over  me,  I  had  to  give  up. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  stand  it,"  I  said.  "But 
there's  a  knife  somewhere  around  these  clothes, 
and  if  I  can  find  it,  perhaps  you  can  cut  the 
leather." 

As  I  gave  her  the  knife  she  turned  it  over,  ex 
amining  it  with  a  peculiar  expression,  bewilder 
ment  rather  than  surprise.  But  she  said  nothing. 
She  set  to  work  deftly,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the 
bag  dropped  free. 

"That's  better,"  I  declared,  sitting  up.  "Now, 
if  you  can  pin  my  sleeve  to  my  coat,  it  will  sup 
port  the  arm  so  we  can  get  away  from  here." 


82      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

"The  pin  might  give,"  she  objected,  "and  the 
jerk  would  be  terrible."  She  looked  around, 
puzzled ;  then  she  got  up,  coming  back  in  a  min 
ute  with  a  draggled,  partly  scorched  sheet.  This 
she  tore  into  a  large  square,  and  after  she  had 
folded  it,  she  slipped  it  under  the  broken  arm 
and  tied  it  securely  at  the  back  of  my  neck. 

The  relief  was  immediate,  and,  picking  up  the 
sealskin  bag,  I  walked  slowly  beside  her,  away 
from  the  track. 

The  first  act  was  over:  the  curtain  fallen. 
The  scene  was  "struck." 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE  HALCYOH  BREAKFAST 

WE  were  still  dazed,  I  think,  for  we  wan 
dered  like  two  troubled  children,  our 
one  idea  at  first  to  get  as  far  away  as  we  could 
from  the  horror  behind  us.  We  were  both  bare 
headed,  grimy,  pallid  through  the  grit.  Now 
and  then  we  met  little  groups  of  country  folk 
hurrying  to  the  track:  they  stared  at  us  curi 
ously,  and  some  wished  to  question  us.  But  we 
hurried  past  them ;  we  had  put  the  wreck  behind 
us.  That  way  lay  madness. 

Only  once  the  girl  turned  and  looked  behind 
her.  The  wreck  was  hidden,  but  the  smoke  cloud 
hung  heavy  and  dense.  For  the  first  time  I  re 
membered  that  my  companion  had  not  been  alone 
on  the  train. 

"It  is  quiet  here,"  I  suggested.  "If  you  will 
sit  down  on  the  bank  I  will  go  back  and  make 
83 


84      THE    MAN    IN   LOWER    TEN 

some  inquiries.  I've  been  criminally  thoughtless. 
Your — traveling  companion — " 

She  interrupted  me,  and  something  of  her 
splendid  poise  was  gone.  "Please  don't  go 
back,"  she  said.  "I — am  afraid  it  would  be  of 
no  use.  And — I  don't  want  to  be  left  alone." 

Heaven  knows  I  did  not  want  her  to  be  alone. 
I  was  more  than  content  to  walk  along  beside 
her  aimlessly,  for  any  length  of  time.  Gradu 
ally,  as  she  lost  the  exaltation  of  the  moment,  I 
was  gaining  my  normal  condition  of  mind.  I 
was  beginning  to  realize  that  I  had  lacked  the 
morning  grace  of  a  shave,  that  I  looked  like 
some  lost  hope  of  yesterday,  and  that  my  left 
shoe  pinched  outrageously.  A  man  does  not  rise 
triumphant  above  such  handicaps.  The  girl,  for 
all  her  disordered  hair  and  the  crumpled  linen 
of  her  waist,  in  spite  of  her  missing  hat  and  the 
small  gold  bag  that  hung  forlornly  from,  a 
broken  chain,  looked  exceedingly  lovely. 

"Then  I  won't  leave  you  alone,"  I  said  man 
fully,  and  we  stumbled  on  together.  Thus  far 
we  had  seen  nobody  from  the  wreck,  but  well  up 
the  lane  we  came  across  the  tall  dark  woman  who 


THE    HALCYON   BREAKFAST      85 

had  occupied  lower  eleven.  She  was  half  crouch 
ing  beside  the  road,  her  black  hair  about  her 
shoulders,  and  an  ugly  bruise  over  her  eye.  She 
did  not  seem  to  know  us,  and  refused  to  accom 
pany  us.  We  left  her  there  at  last,  babbling 
incoherently  and  rolling  in  her  hands  a  dozen 
pebbles  she  had  gathered  in  the  road. 

The  girl  shuddered  as  we  went  on.  Once  she 
turned  and  glanced  at  my  bandage.  "Does  it 
hurt  very  much?"  she  asked. 

"It's  growing  rather  numb.  But  it  might  be 
worse,'*  I  answered  mendaciously.  If  anything 
in  this  world  could  be  worse,  I  had  never  experi 
enced  it. 

And  so  we  trudged  on  bareheaded  under  the 
•ummer  sun,  growing  parched  and  dusty  and 
ireary,  doggedly  leaving  behind  us  the  pillar  of 
smoke.  I  thought  I  knew  of  a  trolley  line  some 
where  in  the  direction  we  were  going,  or  perhaps 
we  could  find  a  horse  and  trap  to  take  us  into 
Baltimore.  The  girl  smiled  when  I  suggest 
ed  it. 

"We  will  create  a  sensation,  won't  we?"  she 
asked.  "Isn't  it  queer — or  perhaps  it's  my  state 


86      THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

of  mind — but  I  keep  wishing  for  a  pair  of 
gloves,  when  I  haven't  even  a  hat !" 

When  we  reached  the  main  road  we  sat  down 
for  a  moment,  and  her  hair,  which  had  been  com 
ing  loose  for  some  time,  fell  over  her  shoulders 
in  little  waves  that  were  most  alluring.  It 
seemed  a  pity  to  twist  it  up  again,  but  when  I 
suggested  this,  cautiously,  she  said  it  was  trou 
blesome  and  got  in  her  eyes  when  it  was  loose. 
So  she  gathered  it  up,  while  I  held  a  row  of  lit 
tle  shell  combs  and  pins,  and  when  it  was  done 
it  was  vastly  becoming,  too.  Funny  about  hair : 
a  man  never  knows  he  has  it  until  he  begins  to 
lose  it,  but  it's  different  with  a  girl.  Something 
of  the  unconventional  situation  began  to  dawn 
on  her  as  she  put  in  the  last  hair-pin  and  patted 
some  stray  locks  to  place. 

"I  have  not  told  you  my  name,"  she  said  ab 
ruptly.  "I  forgot  that  because  I  know  who  you 
are,  you  know  nothing  about  me.  I  am  Alison 
West,  and  my  home  is  in  Richmond." 

So  that  was  it !  This  was  the  girl  of  the  pho 
tograph  on  John  Gilmore's  bedside  table.  The 
girl  McKnight  expected  to  ice  in  Richmond  the 


THE    HALCYON    BREAKFAST      87 

next  day,  Sunday !  She  was  on  her  way  back  to 
meet  him!  Well,  what  difference  did  it  make, 
anyhow?  We  had  been  thrown  together  by  the 
'merest  chance.  In  an  hour  or  two  at  the  most 
we  would  be  back  in  civilization  and  she  would 
recall  me,  if  she  remembered  me  at  all,  as  an  un 
shaven  creature  in  a  red  cravat  and  tan  shoes, 
with  a  soiled  Pullman  sheet  tied  around  my  neck. 
I  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Just  a  twinge,"  I  said,  when  she  glanced  up 
quickly.  "It's  very  good  of  you  to  let  me  know, 
Miss  West.  I  have  been  hearing  delightful 
things  about  you  for  three  months." 

"From  Richey  McKnight?"  She  was  frankly 
curious. 

"Yes.  From  Richey  McKnight,"  I  assented. 
Was  it  any  wonder  McKnight  was  crazy  about 
her?  I  dug  my  heels  into  the  dust. 

"I  have  been  visiting  near  Cresson,  in  the 
(mountains,"  Miss  West  was  saying.  "The  per 
son  you  mentioned,  Mrs.  Curtis,  was  my  hostess. 
We — we  were  on  our  way  to  Washington  to 
gether."  She  spoke  slowly,  as  if  she  wished  to 
give  the  minimum  of  explanation.  Across  her 


88      THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

face  had  come  again  the  baffling  expression  ol 
perplexity  and  trouble  I  had  seen  before. 

"You  were  on  your  way  home,  I  suppose? 
Richey — spoke  about  seeing  you,"  I  floundered, 
finding  it  necessary  to  say  something.  She 
looked  at  me  with  level,  direct  eyes. 

"No,"  she  returned  quietly.  "I  did  not  in 
tend  to  go  home.  I — well,  it  doesn't  matter;  I 
am  going  home  now." 

A  woman  in  a  calico  dress,  with  two  children, 
each  an  exact  duplicate  of  the  other,  had  come 
quickly  down  the  road.  She  took  in  the  situa 
tion  at  a  glance,  and  was  explosively  hospitable. 

"You  poor  things,"  she  said.  "If  you'll  take 
the  first  road  to  the  left  over  there,  and  turn  in 
at  the  second  pigsty,  you  will  find  breakfast  on 
the  table  and  a  coffee-pot  on  the  stove.  And 
there's  plenty  of  soap  and  water,  too.  Don't  say 
one  word.  There  isn't  a  soul  there  to  see  you." 

We  accepted  the  invitation  and  she  hurried 
on  toward  the  excitement  and  the  railroad.  I 
got  up  carefully  and  helped  Miss  West  to  her 
feet. 

"At  the  second  pigsty  to  the  left,"  I  repeat- 


THE    HALCYON    BREAKFAST      89 

ed,  "we  will  find  the  breakfast  I  promised  you 
seven  eternities  ago.     Forward  to  the  pigsty!" 

We  said  very  little  for  the  remainder  of  that 
walk.  I  had  almost  reached  the  limit  of  endur 
ance:  with  every  step  the  broken  ends  of  the 
bone  grated  together.  We  found  the  farm-house 
without  difficulty,  and  I  remember  wondering  if 
I  could  hold  out  to  the  end  of  the  old  stone  walk 
that  led  between  hedges  to  the  door. 

"Allah  be  praised,"  I  said  with  all  the  voice 
I  could  muster.  "Behold  the  coffee-pot !"  And 
then  I  put  down  the  grip  and  folded  up  like  a 
j  ack-knif  e  on  the  porch  floor. 

When  I  came  around  something  hot  was  trick 
ling  down  my  neck,  and  a  despairing  voice  was 
saying,  "Oh,  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  pour  it 
into  your  mouth.  Please  open  your  eyes." 

"But  I  don't  want  it  in  my  eyes,"  I  replied 
dreamily.     "I  haven't  any  idea  what  came  over 
me.     It  was  the  shoes,  I  think:  the  left  one  is  aj 
red-hot  torture."     I  was  sitting  by  that  time 
and  looking  across  into  her  face. 

Never  before  or  since  have  I  fainted,  but  I 
would  do  it  joyfully,  a  dozen  times  a  day,  if  I 

i 


00      THE    MAN    IN   LOWER    TEN 

could  waken  again  to  the  blissful  touch  of  soft 
fingers  on  my  face,  the  hot  ecstasy  of  coffee 
spilled  by  those  fingers  down  my  neck.  There 
was  a  thrill  in  every  tone  of  her  voice  that  morn 
ing.  Before  long  my  loyalty  to  McKnight 
would  step  between  me  and  the  girl  he  loved :  life 
would  develop  new  complexities.  In  those  early 
hours  after  the  wreck,  full  of  pain  as  they  were, 
there  was  nothing  of  the  suspicion  and  distrust 
that  came  later.  Shorn  of  our  gauds  and  bau 
bles,  we  were  primitive  man  and  woman,  to 
gether:  our  world  for  the  hour  was  the  deserted 
farm-house,  the  slope  of  wheat-field  that  led  to 
the  road,  the  woodland  lot,  the  pasture. 

We  breakfasted  together  across  the  homely 
table.  Our  cheerfulness,  at  first  sheer  reaction, 
became  less  forced  as  we  ate  great  slices  of 
bread  from  the  granny  oven  back  of  the  house, 
and  drank  hot  fluid  that  smelled  like  coffee  and 
tasted  like  nothing  that  I  have  ever  swallowed. 
We  found  cream  in  stone  jars,  sunk  deep  in  the 
chill  water  of  the  spring  house.  And  there  were 
eggs,  great  yellow-brown  ones, — a  basket  of 
them. 


THE    HALCYON    BREAKFAST      91 

So,  like  two  children  awakened  from  a  night 
mare,  we  chattered  over  our  food:  we  hunted 
mutual  friends,  we  laughed  together  at  my  fee 
ble  witticisms,  but  we  put  the  horror  behind  us 
resolutely.  After  all,  it  was  the  hat  with  the 
green  ribbons  that  brought  back  the  strange 
ness  of  the  situation. 

All  along  I  had  had  the  impression  that  Ali- 
aon  West  was  deliberately  putting  out  of  her 
mind  something  that  obtruded  now  and  then. 
It  brought  with  it  a  return  of  the  puzzled  ex 
pression  that  I  had  surprised  early  in  the  day, 
before  the  wreck.  I  caught  it  once,  when,  break 
fast  over,  she  was  tightening  the  sling  that  held 
the  broken  arm.  I  had  prolonged  the  morning 
meal  as  much  as  I  could,  but  when  the  wooden 
clock  with  the  pink  roses  on  the  dial  pointed  to 
half  after  ten,  and  the  mother  with  the  duplicate 
youngsters  had  not  come  back,  Miss  West  made 
the  move  I  had  dreaded. 

"If  we  are  to  get  into  Baltimore  at  all  we 
must  start,"  she  said,  rising.  "You  ought  to 
see  a  doctor  as  soon  as  possible." 

"Hush,"  I  said  warningly.     "Don't  mentioa 


92      THE   MAN   IN    LOWER   TEN 

the  arm,  please ;  it  is  asleep  now.  You  may  rouse 
it." 

"If  I  only  had  a  hat,"  she  reflected.  "It 
wouldn't  need  to  be  much  of  one,  but — "  She 
gave  a  little  cry  and  darted  to  the  corner. 
"Look,"  she  said  triumphantly,  "the  very  thing. 
With  the  green  streamers  tied  up  in  a  bow,  like 
this — do  you  suppose  the  child  would  mind? 
I  can  put  five  dollars  or  so  here — that  would  buy 
a  dozen  of  them." 

It  was  a  queer  affair  of  straw,  that  hat,  with 
a  round  crown  and  a  rim  that  flopped  dismally. 
With  a  single  movement  she  had  turned  it  up  at 
one  side  and  fitted  it  to  her  head.  Grotesque  by 
itself,  when  she  wore  it  it  was  a  thing  of  joy. 

Evidently  the  lack  of  head  covering  had  trou 
bled  her,  for  she  was  elated  at  her  find.  She  left 
me,  scrawling  a  note  of  thanks  and  pinning  it 
with  a  bill  to  the  table-cloth,  and  ran  up-stairs 
to  the  mirror  and  the  promised  soap  and  water. 

I  did  not  see  her  when  she  came  down.  I  had 
discovered  a  bench  with  a  tin  basin  outside  the 
kitchen  door,  and  was  washing,  in  a  helpless,  one 
sided  way.  I  felt  rather  than  saw  that  she  waa 

* 


THE    HALCYON    BREAKFAST      93 

standing  In  the  door-way,  and  I  made  a  final 
plunge  into  the  basin. 

"How  is  it  possible  for  a  man  with  only  a 
right  hand  to  wash  his  left  ear?"  I  asked  from 
the  roller  towel.  I  was  distinctly  uncomfortable : 
men  are  more  rigidly  creatures  of  convention 
than  women,  whether  they  admit  it  or  not. 
"There  is  so  much  soap  on  me  still  that  if  I 
laugh  I  will  blow  bubbles.  Washing  with  rain 
water  and  home-made  soap  is  like  motoring  on 
a  slippery  road.  I  only  struck  the  high  places." 

Then,  having  achieved  a  brilliant  polish  with 
the  towel,  I  looked  at  the  girl. 

She  was  leaning  against  the  frame  of  the 
door,  her  face  perfectly  colorless,  her  breath 
coming  in  slow,  difficult  respirations.  The  er 
ratic  hat  was  pinned  to  place,  but  it  had  slid 
rakishly  to  one  side.  When  I  realized  that  she 
was  staring,  not  at  me,  but  past  me  to  the  road 
along  which  we  had  come,  I  turned  and  followed 
her  gaze.  There  was  no  one  in  sight:  the  lane 
stretched  dust  white  in  the  sun, — no  moving  fig 
ure  on  it,  no  sign  of  life. 


lass  WEST'S  BEQUEST 

7TPIHE  surprising-  change  in  her  held  me 
JL  speechless.  All  the  animation  of  the 
breakfast  table  was  gone:  there  was  no  hint  of 
the  response  with  which,  before,  she  had  met  my 
nonsensical  sallies.  She  stood  there,  white- 
lipped,  unsmiling,  staring  down  the  dusty  road. 
One  hand  was  clenched  tight  over  some  small  ob 
ject.  Her  eyes  dropped  to  it  from  the  distant 
road,  and  then  closed,  with  a  quick,  indrawm 
breath. 

Her  color  came  back  slowly.  Whatever  had 
caused  the  change,  she  said  nothing.  She  was 
anxious  to  leave  at  once,  almost  impatient  over 
my  deliberate  masculine  way  of  getting  my 
things  together.  Afterward  I  recalled  that  I 
had  wanted  to  explore  the  barn  for  a  horse  and 
some  sort  of  a  vehicle  to  take  us  to  the  trolley, 
94,  i 


MISS    WEST'S    REQUEST          90 

and  that  she  had  refused  to  allow  me  to  look.  1 
remembered  many  things  later  that  might  have 
helped  me,  and  did  not.  At  the  time,  I  was  only 
completely  bewildered.  Save  the  wreck,  the  re 
sponsibility  for  which  lay  between  Providence 
and  the  engineer  of  the  second  section,  all  the 
events  of  that  strange  morning  were  logically 
connected;  they  came  from  one  cause,  and  tended 
unerringly  to  one  end.  But  the  cause  was  bur 
ied,  the  end  not  yet  in  view. 

Not  until  we  had  left  the  house  well  behind 
did  the  girl's  face  relax  its  tense  lines.  I  was 
watching  her  more  closely  than  I  had  realized, 
for  when  we  had  gone  a  little  way  along  the 
road  she  turned  to  me  almost  petulantly. 
"Please  don't  stare  so  at  me,"  she  said,  to  my 
sudden  confusion.  "I  know  the  hat  is  dreadful. 
Green  always  makes  me  look  ghastly." 

"Perhaps  it  was  the  green."  I  was  unaccount 
ably  relieved.  "Do  you  know,  a  few  minutes 
ago,  you  looked  almost  pallid  to  me !" 

She  glanced  at  me  quickly,  but  I  was  gazing 
ahead.  We  were  out  of  sight  of  the  house,  now, 
and  with  every  step  away  from  it  the  girl  was 


96      THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

obviously  relieved.  Whatever  she  held  in  her 
hand,  she  never  glanced  at  it.  But  she  was  con 
scious  of  it  every  second.  She  seemed  to  come 
to  a  decision  about  it  while  we  were  still  in  sight 
of  the  gate,  for  she  murmured  something  and 
turned  back  alone,  going  swiftly,  her  feet  stir 
ring  up  small  puffs  of  dust  at  every  step.  She 
fastened  something  to  the  gate-post, — I  could 
see  the  nervous  haste  with  which  she  worked. 
When  she  joined  me  again  it  was  without  ex 
planation.  But  the  clenched  fingers  were  free 
now,  and  while  she  looked  tired  and  worn,  the 
strain  had  visibly  relaxed. 

We  walked  along  slowly  in  the  general  direc 
tion  of  the  suburban  trolley  line.  Once  a  man 
with  an  empty  wagon  offered  us  a  lift,  but  after 
a  glance  at  the  springless  vehicle  I  declined. 

"The  ends  of  the  bone  think  they  are  casta 
nets  as  it  is,"  I  explained.  "But  the  lady — " 

The  young  lady,  however,  declined  and  we 
went  on  together.  Once,  when  the  trolley  line 
was  in  sight,  she  got  a  pebble  in  her  low  shoe, 
and  we  sat  down  under  a  tree  until  she  found  the 
cause  of  the  trouble. 


MISS    WEST'S    REQUEST  97 

"I — I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done 
without  you,"  I  blundered.  "Moral  support  and 
— and  all  that.  Do  you  know,  my  first  conscious 
thought  after  the  wreck  was  of  relief  that  you 
had  not  been  hurt  ?" 

She  was  sitting  beside  me,  where  a  big  chest 
nut  tree  shaded  the  road,  and  I  surprised  a  look 
of  misery  on  her  face  that  certainly  my  words 
had  not  been  meant  to  produce. 

"And  my  first  thought,"  she  said  slowly,  "was 
regret  that  I — that  I  hadn't  been  obliterated, 
blown  out  like  a  candle.  Please  don't  look  like 
that !  I  am — only  talking." 

But  her  lips  were  trembling,  and  because  the 
little  shams  of  society  are  forgotten  at  times 
like  this,  I  leaned  over  and  patted  her  hand 
lightly,  where  it  rested  on  the  grass  beside  me. 

"You  must  not  say  those  things,"  I  expostu 
lated.  "Perhaps,  after  all,  your  friends — " 

"I  had  no  friends  on  the  train."  Her  voice 
was  hard  again,  her  tone  final.  She  drew  her 
hand  from  under  mine,  not  quickly,  but  deci 
sively.  A  car  was  in  sight,  coming  toward  us. 
The  steel  finger  of  civilization,  of  propriety,  of 


98      THE    MAN   IN    LOWER    TEN 

•visiting  cards  and  formal  introductions  was 
beckoning  us  in.  Miss  West  put  on  her  shoe. 

We  said  little  on  the  car.  The  few  passen 
gers  stared  at  us  frankly,  and  discussed  th* 
wreck,  emphasizing  its  horrors.  The  girl  did 
not  seem  to  hear.  Once  she  turned  to  me  with 
the  quick,  unexpected  movement  that  was  one  of 
her  charms. 

"I  do  not  wish  my  mother  to  know  I  was  in 
the  accident,"  she  said.  "Will  you  please  not 
tell  Richey  about  having  met  me  ?" 

I  gave  my  promise,  of  course.  Again,  when 
we  were  almost  into  Baltimore,  she  asked  to  ex 
amine  the  gun-metal  cigarette  "case,  and  sat 
silent  with  it  in  her  hands,  while  I  told  of  the 
early  morning's  events  on  the  Ontario. 

"So  you  see,"  I  finished,  "this  grip,  every 
thing  I  have  on,  belongs  to  a  fellow  named  Sul 
livan.  He  probably  left  the  train  before  the 
wreck, — perhaps  just  after  the  murder." 

"And  so — you  think  he  committed  the — th« 
crime?"  Her  eyes  were  on  the  cigarette  case. 

"Naturally,"  I  said.  "A  man  doesn't  jump 
off  a,  Pullman  car  in  the  middle  of  the  night  in 


MISS    WEST'S    REQUEST          e9 

another  man's  clothes,  unless  he  is  trying  to  get 
away  from  something.  Besides  the  dirk,  there 
were  the  stains  that  you  saw.  Why,  I  have  the 
murdered  man's  pocket-book  in  this  valise  at  my 
feet.  What  does  that  look  like?" 

I  colored  when  I  saw  the  ghost  of  a  smile 
hovering  around  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  "That 
is,"  I  finished,  "if  you  care  to  believe  that  I  am 
innocent." 

The  sustaining  chain  of  her  small  gold  bag 
gave  way  just  then.  She  did  not  notice  it. 
I  picked  it  up  and  slid  the  trinket  into  my  pocket 
for  safekeeping,  where  I  promptly  forgot  it. 
'Afterwards  I  wished  I  had  let  it  lie  unnoticed  on 
the  floor  of  that  dirty  little  suburban  car,  and 
even  now,  when  I  see  a  woman  carelessly  dan 
gling  a  similar  feminine  trinket,  I  shudder  invol 
untarily  :  there  comes  back  to  me  the  memory  of 
a  girl's  puzzled  eyes  under  the  brim  of  a  flop 
ping  hat,  the  haunting  suspicion  of  the  sleepless 
nights  that  followed. 

Just  then  I  was  determined  that  my  compan 
ion  should  not  stray  back  to  the  wreck,  and  to 
that  end  I  was  determinedly  facetious. 


100    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER    TEN 

"Do  you  know  that  it  is  Sunday?"  she  asked 
suddenly,  "and  that  we  are  actually  ragged?" 

"Never  mind  that,"  I  retorted.  "All  Balti 
more  is  divided  on  Sunday  into  three  parts,  those 
who  rise  up  and  go  to  church,  those  who  rise  up 
and  read  the  newspapers,  and  those  who  don't 
rise  up.  The  first  are  somewhere  between  the 
creed  and  the  sermon,  and  we  need  not  worry 
about  the  others." 

"You  treat  me  like  a  child,"  she  said  almost 
pettishly.  "Don't  try  so  hard  to  be  cheerful.  It 
— it  is  almost  ghastly." 

After  that  I  subsided  like  a  pricked  balloon, 
and  the  remainder  of  the  ride  was  made  in 
silence.  The  information  that  she  would  go  to 
friends  in  the  city  was  a  shock :  it  meant  an  ear 
lier  separation  than  I  had  planned  for.  But  my 
arm  was  beginning  again.  In  putting  her  into 
a  cab  I  struck  it  and  gritted  my  teeth  with  the 
pain.  It  was  probably  for  that  reason  that  I 
forgot  the  gold  bag. 

She  leaned  forward  and  held  out  her  hand.  "I 
may  not  have  another  chance  to  thank  you,"  shtr 
said,  "and  I  think  I  would  better  not  try,  any- 


MISS    WEST'S    REQUEST         101 

how.  I  can  not  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am."  I 
muttered  something  about  the  gratitude  being 
mine :  owing  to  the  knock  I  was  seeing  two  cabs, 
and  two  girls  were  holding  out  two  hands. 

"Remember,"  they  were  both  saying,  "you 
have  never  met  me,  Mr.  Blakeley.  And — if  you 
ever  hear  anything  about  me — that  is  not — 
pleasant,  I  want  you  to  think  the  best  you  can 
of  me.  Will  you?" 

The  two  girls  were  one  now,  with  little  flashes 
of  white  light  playing  all  around.  "I — I'm 
afraid  that  I  shall  think  too  well  for  my  own 
good,"  I  said  unsteadily.  And  the  cab  drove  on. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  NAME  WAS  SOLUYAU 

I  HAD  my  arm  done  up  temporarily  in  Bal 
timore  and  took  the  next  train  home.  I  was 
pretty  far  gone  when  I  stumbled  out  of  a  cab  al 
most  into  the  scandalized  arms  of  Mrs.  Klopton. 
In  fifteen  minutes  I  was  in  bed,  with  that  good 
woman  piling  on  blankets  and  blistering  me  in 
unprotected  places  with  hot-water  bottles.  And 
in  an  hour  I  had  had  a  whiff  of  chloroform  and 
Doctor  Williams  had  set  the  broken  bone. 

I  dropped  asleep  then,  waking  in  the  late  twi 
light  to  a  realization  that  I  was  at  home  again, 
without  the  papers  that  meant  conviction  for 
Andy  Bronson,  with  a  charge  of  murder  hang»- 
ing  over  my  head,  and  with  something  more  than 
an  impression  of  the  girl  my  best  friend  was  in 
love  with,  a  girl  moreover  who  was  almost  as 
great  an  enigma  as  the  crime  itself. 
103 


THE    NAME    WAS    SULLIVAN    103 

"And  I'm  no  hand  at  guessing  riddles,"  I 
groaned  half  aloud.  Mrs.  Klopton  came  over 
promptly  and  put  a  cold  cloth  on  my  forehead. 

"Euphemia,"  she  said  to  some  one  outside  the 
door,  "telephone  the  doctor  that  he  is  still  ram 
bling,  but  that  he  has  switched  from  green  rib 
bons  to  riddles." 

"There's  nothing  the  matter  with  me,  Mrs. 
Klopton,"  I  rebelled.  "I  was  only  thinking  out 
loud.  Confound  that  cloth:  it's  trickling  all 
over  me !"  I  gave  it  a  fling,  and  heard  it  land 
with  a  soggy  thud  on  the  floor. 

"Thinking  out  loud  is  delirium,"  Mrs.  Klop 
ton  said  imperturbably.  "A  fresh  cloth,  Eu- 
phemia." 

This  time  she  held  it  on  with  a  firm  pressure 
that  I  was  too  weak  to  resist.  I  expostulated 
feebly  that  I  was  drowning,  which  she  also  laid 
to  my  mental  exaltation,  and  then  I  finally 
dropped  into  a  damp  sleep.  It  was  probably 
midnight  when  I  roused  again.  I  had  been 
dreaming  of  the  wreck,  and  it  was  inexpressibly 
comforting  to  feel  the  stability  of  my  bed,  and 
to  realize  the  equal  stability  of  Mrs.  Klopton, 


who  sat,  fully  attired,  by  the  night  light,  read 
ing  Science  and  Health. 

"Does  that  book  say  anything  about  opening 
ihe  windows  on  a  hot  night?"  I  suggested,  when' 
i  had  got  my  bearings. 

She  put  it  down  immediately  and  came  over 
oo  me.  If  there  is  one  time  when  Mrs.  Klopton 
Is  chastened — and  it  is  the  only  time — it  is  when 
r,he  reads  Science  and  Health.  "I  don't  like  to 
open  the  shutters,  Mr.  Lawrence,"  she  explained. 
uNot  since  the  night  you  went  away." 

But,  pressed  further,  she  refused  to  explain. 
"The  doctor  said  you  were  not  to  be  excited," 
slie  persisted.  "Here's  your  beef  tea." 

"Not  a  drop  until  you  tell  me,"  I  said  firmly. 
"Besides,  you  know  very  well  there's  nothing  the 
matter  with  me.  This  arm  of  mine  is  only  a 
/alse  belief."  I  sat  up  gingerly.  "Now — why 
don't  you  open  that  window?" 

Mrs.  Klopton  succumbed.  "Because  there  are 
}ueer  goings-on  in  that  house  next  door,"  she 
said.  "If  you  will  take  the  beef  tea,  Mr.  Law 
rence,  I  will  tell  you." 

The  queer  goings-on,  however,  proved  to  be 


THE    NAME    WAS    SULLIVAN    105 

slightly  disappointing.  It  seemed  that  after  I 
left  on  Friday  night,  a  light  was  seen  flitting 
fitfully  through  the  empty  house  next  door.  Eu- 
phemia  had  seen  it  first  and  called  Mrs.  Klop- 
ton.  Together  they  had  watched  it  breathlessly 
until  it  disappeared  on  the  lower  floor. 

"You  should  have  been  a  writer  of  ghost  sto 
ries,"  I  said,  giving  my  pillows  a  thump.  "And 
so  it  was  fitting  flitf  ully !" 

"That's  what  it  was  doing,"  she  reiterated. 
"Fitting  flitfully — I  mean  flitting  fitfully — how 
you  do  throw  one  out,  Mr.  Lawrence!  And 
what's  more,  it  came  again !" 

"Oh,  come  now,  Mrs.  Klopton,"  I  objected, 
"ghosts  are  like  lightning;  they  never  strike 
twice  in  the  same  night.  That  is  only  worth 
half  a  cup  of  beef  tea.'* 

"You  may  ask  Euphemia,"  she  retorted  with 
dignity.  "Not  more  than  an  hour  after,  there 
was  a  light  there  again.  We  saw  it  through  the 
chinks  of  the  shutters.  Only — this  time  it  be 
gan  at  the  lower  floor  and  climbed!" 

"You  oughtn't  to  tell  ghost  stories  at  night," 
came  McKnight's  voice  from  the  doorway. 


106    THE    MAN   IN    LOWER    TEN 

"Really,  Mrs.  Klopton,  I'm  amazed  at  you.  You 
old  duffer !  I've  got  you  to  thank  for  the  worst 
,day  of  my  life." 

Mrs.  Klopton  gulped.  Then  realizing  that 
the  "old  duffer"  was  meant  for  me,  she  took  her 
empty  cup  and  went  out  muttering. 

"The  Pirate's  crazy  about  me,  isn't  she?"  Mc- 
Knight  said  to  the  closing  door.  Then  he 
swung  around  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"By  Jove,"  he  said,  "I've  been  laying  you 
out  all  day,  lilies  on  the  door-bell,  black  gloves, 
everything.  If  you  had  had  the  sense  of  a  mos 
quito  in  a  snow-storm,  you  would  have  tele 
phoned  me." 

"I  never  even  thought  of  it."  I  was  filled 
with  remorse.  "Upon  my  word,  Rich,  I  hadn't 
an  idea  beyond  getting  away  from  that  place. 
If  you  had  seen  what  I  saw — " 

McKnight  stopped  me.  "Seen  it !  Why,  you 
lunatic,  I've  been  digging  for  you  all  day  in  the 
ruins !  I've  lunched  ahd  dined  on  horrors.  Give 
me  something  to  rinse  them  down,  Lollie." 

He  had  fished  the  key  of  the  cellarette  from 
its  hiding-place  in  my  shoe  bag  and  was  mixing 


himself  what  he  called  a  Bernard  Shaw — a 
foundation  of  brandy  and  soda,  with  a  little  of 
everything  else  in  sight  to  give  it  snap.  Now 
that  I  saw  him  clearly,  he  looked  weary  andj 
grimy.  I  hated  to  tell  him  what  I  knew  he  was 
waiting  to  hear,  but  there  was  no  use  wading 
in  by  inches.  I  ducked  and  got  it  over. 

"The  notes  are  gone,  Rich,"  I  said,  as  quietly 
as  I  could.  In  spite  of  himself  his  face  fell. 

"I — of  course  I  expected  it,"  he  said.  "But 
— Mrs.  Klopton  said  over  the  telephone  that 
you  had  brought  home  a  grip  and  I  hoped — 
well,  Lord  knows  we  ought  not  to  complain. 
You're  here,  damaged,  but  here."  He  lifted  his 
glass.  "Happy  days,  old  man  1" 

"If  you  will  give  me  that  black  bottle  and  a 
teaspoon,  I'll  drink  that  in  arnica,  or  whatever 
the  stuff  is;  Rich, — the  notes  were  gone  before 
the  wreck !" 

He  wheeled  and  stared  at  me,  the  bottle  in  his  I 
hand.     "Lost,  strayed  or  stolen?"  he  queried 
with  forced  lightness. 

"Stolen,  although  I  believe  the  theft  was  in 
cidental  to  something  else." 


108    THE    MAN   IN    LOWER    TEN 

Mrs.  Klopton  came  in  at  that  moment,  with 
an  egg-nog  in  ner  hand.  She  glanced  at  the 
clock,  and,  without  addressing  any  one  in  par 
ticular,  she  intimated  that  it  was  time  for  self- 
respecting  folks  to  be  at  home  in  bed.  Mc- 
Knight,  who  could  never  resist  a  fling  at  her 
back,  spoke  to  me  in  a  stage  whisper. 

"Is  she  talking  still?  or  again?"  he  asked, 
just  before  the  door  closed.  There  was  a  sec 
ond's  indecision  with  the  knob,  then,  judging 
discretion  the  better  part,  Mrs.  Klopton  went 
away. 

"Now,  then,"  McKnight  said,  settling  himself 
in  a  chair  beside  the  bed,  "spit  it  out.  Not  the 
wreck — I  know  all  I  want  about  that.  But  the 
theft.  I  can  tell  you  beforehand  that  it  was  a 
woman." 

I  had  crawled  painfully  out  of  bed,  and  was 
in  the  act  of  pouring  the  egg-nog  down  the 
ipipe  of  the  washstand.  I  paused,  with  the  glass 
in  the  air. 

"A  woman!"  I  repeated,  startled.  "What 
makes  you  think  that?" 

"You   don't  know  the  first   principles  of   a 


THE    NAME    WAS    SULLIVAN    109 

good  detective  yarn,"  he  said  scornfully.  "Of 
course,  it  was  the  woman  in  the  empty  house 
next  door.  You  said  it  was  brass  pipes,  you 
will  remember.  Well — on  with  the  dance:  let 
joy  be  unconfined." 

So — I  told  the  story ;  I  had  told  it  so  many 
times  that  day  that  I  did  it  automatically.  And 
I  told  about  the  girl  with  the  bronze  hair,  and 
my  suspicions.  But  I  did  not  mention  Alison 
West.  McKnight  listened  to  the  end  without 
interruption.  When  I  had  finished  he  drew  a 
long  breath. 

"Well!"  he  said.  "That's  something  of  a 
mess,  isn't  it?  If  you  can  only  prove  your  mild 
and  childlike  disposition,  they  couldn't  hold  you 
for  the  murder — which  is  a  regular  ten-twent- 
thirt  crime,  anyhow.  But  the  notes — that's  dif 
ferent.  They  are  not  burned,  anyhow.  Your 
man  wasn't  on  the  train — therefore,  he  wasn't 
in  the  wreck.  If  he  didn't  know  what  he  was 
taking,  as  you  seem  to  think,  he  probably  reads 
the  papers,  and  unless  he  is  a  fathead,  he's 
awake  by  this  time  to  what  he's  got.  He'll  try 
to  sell  them  to  Bronson,  probably." 


110    THE    MAN   IN    LOWER    TEN 

"Or  to  us,"  I  put  in. 

We  said  nothing  for  a  few  minutes.     Me- 
Knight   smoked   a   cigarette   and   stared   at   a 
'photograph  of  Candida  over  the  mantel.     Can 
dida  is  the  best  pony  for  a  heavy  mount  in  seven 
states. 

"I  didn't  go  to  Richmond,"  he  observed 
finally.  The  remark  followed  my  own  thoughts 
so  closely  that  I  started.  "Miss  West  is  not 
home  yet  from  Seal  Harbor." 

Receiving  no  response,  he  lapsed  again  into 
thoughtful  silence.  Mrs.  Klopton  came  in  just 
as  the  clock  struck  one,  and  made  preparation 
for  the  night  by  putting  a  large  gaudy  com 
fortable  into  an  arm-chair  in  the  dressing-room, 
with  a  smaller,  stiff -backed  chair  for  her  feet. 
She  was  wonderfully  attired  in  a  dressing-gown 
that  was  reminiscent,  in  parts,  of  all  the  ones 
she  had  given  me  for  a  half  dozen  Christmases, 
<  and  she  had  a  purple  veil  wrapped  around  her 
head,  to  hide  Heaven  knows  what  deficiency. 
She  examined  the  empty  egg-nog  glass,  in 
quired  what  the  evening  paper  had  said  about 
the  weather,  and  then  stalked  into  the  dressing- 


THE    NAME    WAS    SULLIVAN    111 

room,    and   prepared,    with   much   ostentatious 
creaking,  to  sit  up  all  night. 

We  fell  silent  again,  while  McKnight  traced 
a  rough  outline  of  the  berths  on  the  white  table- 
cover,  and  puzzled  it  out  slowly.  It  was  some 
thing  like  this : 


10* 


8 


AISLE. 


"You  think  he  changed  the  tags  on  seven  and 
nine,  so  that  when  you  went  back  to  bed  you 
thought  you  were  crawling  into  nine,  when  it 
was  really  seven,  eh?" 

"Probably — yes." 

"Then  toward  morning,  when  everybody  was 
asleep,  your  theory  is  that  he  changed  the  num 
bers  again  and  left  the  train." 

"I  can't  think  of  anything  else,"  I  replied 
wearily. 

"Jove,  what  a  game  of  bridge  that  fellow 


THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

would  play !  It  was  like  finessing  an  eight-spot 
and  winning  out.  They  would  scarcely  have 
doubted  your  story  had  the  tags  been  reversed 
in  the  morning.  He  certainly  left  you  in  a  bad 
way.  Not  a  jury  in  the  country  would  stand 
out  against  the  stains,  the  stiletto,  and  the  mur 
dered  man's  pocket-book  in  your  possession." 

"Then  you  think  Sullivan  did  it?"  I  asked. 

"Of  course,"  said  McKnight  confidently. 
"Unless  you  did  it  in  your  sleep.  Look  at  the 
stains  on  his  pillow,  and  the  dirk  stuck  into  it. 
And  didn't  he  have  the  man  Harrington's 
pocket-book  ?" 

"But  why  did  he  go  off  without  the  money?" 
I  persisted.  "And  where  does  the  bronze-haired 
girl  come  in?" 

"Search  me,"  McKnight  retorted  flippantly. 
"Inflammation  of  the  imagination  on  your 
part." 

"Then  there  is  the  piece  of  telegram.  It  said 
lower  ten,  car  seven.  It's  extremely  likely  that 
she  had  it.  That  telegram  was  about  me, 
Richey." 

"I'm  getting  a  headache,"  he  said,  putting 


THE    NAME    WAS    SULLIVAN    113 

out  his  cigarette  against  the  sole  of  his  shoe. 
"All  I'm  certain  of  just  now  is  that  if  there 
hadn't  been  a  wreck,  by  this  time  you'd  be  sit 
ting  in  an  eight  by  ten  cell,  and  feeling  like  the 
rhyme  for  it." 

"But  listen  to  this,"  I  contended,  as  he  picked 
up  his  hat,  "this  fellow  Sullivan  is  a  fugitive, 
and  he's  a  lot  more  likely  to  make  advances  to 
Bronson  than  to  us.  We  could  have  the  case 
continued,  release  Bronson  on  bail  and  set  a 
watch  on  him." 

"Not  my  watch,"  McKnight  protested.  "It's 
a  family  heirloom." 

"You'd  better  go  home,"  I  said  firmly.  "Go 
home  and  go  to  bed.  You're  sleepy.  You  can 
have  Sullivan's  red  necktie  to  dream  over  if  you 
think  it  will  help  any." 

Mrs.  Klopton's  voice  came  drowsily  from  the 
next  room,  punctuated  by  a  yawn.  "Oh,  I  for 
got  to  tell  you,"  she  called,  with  the  suspicious 
lisp  which  characterizes  her  at  night,  "somebody 
called  up  about  noon,  Mr.  Lawrence.  It  was 
long  distance,  and  he  said  he  would  call  again. 
The  name  was" — she  yawned — "Sullivan." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  GOLD  BAG 

I  HAVE  always  smiled  at  those  cases  of 
spontaneous  combustion  which,  like  fus 
ing  the  component  parts  of  a  seidlitz  powder, 
unite  two  people  in  a  bubbling  and  ephemeral 
ecstasy.  But  surely  there  is  possible,  with  but 
a  single  meeting,  an  attraction  so  great,  a  com 
munity  of  mind  and  interest  so  strong,  that  be 
tween  that  first  meeting  and  the  next  the  bond 
may  grow  into  something  stronger.  This  is 
especially  true,  I  fancy,  of  people  with  tempera 
ment,  the  modern  substitute  for  imagination.  It 
is  a  nice  question  whether  lovers  begin  to  love 
when  they  are  together,  or  when  they  are  apart. 
Not  that  I  followed  any  such  line  of  reasoning , 
at  the  time.  I  would  not  even  admit  my  folly  to 
myself.  But  during  the  restless  hours  of  that 
first  night  after  the  accident,  when  my  back 
114 


THE    GOLD    BAG  11* 

ached  with  lying  on  it,  and  any  other  position 
was  torture,  I  found  my  thoughts  constantly 
going  back  to  Alison  West.  I  dropped  into  a 
doze,  to  dream  of  touching  her  fingers  again  to 
comfort  her,  and  awoke  to  find  I  had  patted  a 
teaspoonful  of  medicine  out  of  Mrs.  Klopton's 
indignant  hand.  What  was  it  McKnight  had 
said  about  making  an  egregious  ass  of  myself? 

And  that  brought  me  back  to  Richey,  and  I 
fancy  I  groaned.  There  is  no  use  expatiating 
on  the  friendship  between  two  men  who  have 
gone  together  through  college,  have  quarreled 
and  made  it  up,  fussed  together  over  politics  and 
debated  creeds  for  years :  men  don't  need  to  be 
told,  and  women  can  not  understand.  Never 
theless,  I  groaned.  If  it  had  been  any  one  but 
Rich! 

Some  things  were  mine,  however,  and  I  would 

hold  them :  the  halcyon  breakfast,  the  queer  hat, 

j  the  pebble  in  her  small  shoe,  the  gold  bag  with 

the  broken  chain — the  bag !    Why,  it  was  in  my 

pocket  at  that  moment. 

I  got  up  painfully  and  found  my  coat.  Yes, 
fhere  was  the  purse,  bulging  with  an  opulent 


116    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

suggestion  of  wealth  inside.  I  went  back  to  bed 
again,  somewhat  dizzy,  between  effort  and  the 
touch  of  the  trinket,  so  lately  hers.  I  held  it 
up  by  its  broken  chain  and  gloated  over  it.  By 
careful  attention  to  orders,  I  ought  to  be  out  in 
a  day  or  so.  Then — I  could  return  it  to  her.  I 
really  ought  to  do  that:  it  was  valuable,  and  I 
wouldn't  care  to  trust  it  to  the  mail.  I  could 
run  down  to  Richmond,  and  see  her  once — there 
was  no  disloyalty  to  Rich  in  that. 

I  had  no  intention  of  opening  the  little  bag. 
I  put  it  under  my  pillow — which  was  my  reason 
for  refusing  to  have  the  linen  slips  changed,  to 
Mrs.  Klopton's  dismay.  And  sometimes  during 
the  morning,  while  I  lay  under  a  virgin  field  of 
white,  ornamented  with  strange  flowers,  my  cig 
arettes  hidden  beyond  discovery,  and  Science 
and  Health  on  a  table  by  my  elbow,  as  if  by  the 
merest  accident,  I  slid  my  hand  under  my  pillow 
and  touched  it  reverently. 

McKnight  came  in  about  eleven.  I  heard  his 
car  at  the  curb,  followed  almost  immediately  by 
his  slam  at  the  front  door,  and  his  usual  clamor 
on  the  stairs.  He  had  a  bottle  under  his  arm, 


THE    GOLD   BAG  117 

rightly  surmising  that  I  had  been  forbidden 
stimulant,  and  a  large  box  of  cigarettes  in  his 
pocket,  suspecting  my  deprivation. 

"Well,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "How  did  you 
sleep  after  keeping  me  up  half  the  night?" 

I  slid  my  hand  around:  the  purse  was  well 
covered. 

"Have  it  now,  or  wait  till  I  get  the  cork  out?" 
he  rattled  on. 

"I  don't  want  anything,"  I  protested.  "I 
wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  darned  cheerful, 
Richey."  He  stopped  whistling  to  stare  at  me. 

"  *I  am  saddest  when  I  sing !'  "  he  quoted  unc 
tuously.  "It's  pure  reaction,  Lollie.  Yesterday 
the  sky  was  low:  I  was  digging  for  my  best 
friend.  To-day — he  lies  before  me,  his  peevish 
self.  Yesterday  I  thought  the  notes  were 
burned :  to-day — I  look  forward  to  a  good  cross » 
country  chase,  and  with  luck  we  will  draw.'1 
His  voice  changed  suddenly.  "Yesterday — shft 
was  in  Seal  Harbor.  To-day — she  is  here." 

"Here  in  Washington?"  I  asked,  as  naturally 
as  I  could. 

"Yes.    Going  to  stay  a  week  or  two/' 


118    THE    MAN   IN    LOWER    TEN 

"Oh,  I  had  a  little  hen  and  she  had  a  wooden  leg 
And  nearly  every  morning  she  used  to  lay  am 
egg—" 

\ 
"Will  you  stop  that  racket,  Rich!    It's  the 

real  thing  this  time,  I  suppose?" 

"She's  the  best  little  chicken  that  we  have  on  the 

farm 
And    another    little    drink    won't    do    u»    anj 

harm—" 

he  finished,  twisting  out  the  corkscrew.  Thea 
he  came  over  and  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

"Well,"  he  said  judicially,  "since  you  drag  it 
from  me,  I  think  perhaps  it  is.  You — you're 
such  a  confirmed  woman-hater  that  I  hardly 
knew  how  you  would  take  it." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  I  denied  testily.  "Be 
cause  a  man  reaches  the  age  of  thirty  without 
making  maudlin  love  to  every — " 

"I've  taken  to  long  country  rides,"  he  went 
on  reflectively,  without  listening  to  me,  "and 
yesterday  I  ran  over  a  sheep ;  nearly  went  into 
the  ditch.  But  there's  a  Providence  that  watches 


THE    GOLD    BAG  119 

over  fools  and  lovers,  and  just  now  I  know 
darned  well  that  I'm  one,  and  I  have  a  sneaking 
idea  I'm  both." 

"You  are  both,"  I  said  with  disgust.  "If  you 
can  be  rational  for  one  moment,  I  wish  you 
would  tell  me  why  that  man  Sullivan  called  me 
over  the  telephone  yesterday  morning." 

"Probably  hadn't  yet  discovered  the  Bron- 
son  notes — providing  you  hold  to  your  theory 
that  the  theft  was  incidental  to  the  murder. 
May  have  wanted  his  own  clothes  again,  or  to 
thank  you  for  yours.  Search  me:  I  can't  think 
of  anything  else."  The  doctor  came  in  just 
then. 

As  I  said  before,  I  think  a  lot  of  my  doctor 
— when  I  am  ill.  He  is  a  young  man,  with  an 
air  of  breezy  self-confidence  and  good  humor. 
He  looked  directly  past  the  bottle,  which  is  a 
very  valuable  accomplishment,  and  shook  hands 
.  with  McKnight  until  I  could  put  the  cigarettes 
under  the  bedclothes.  He  had  interdicted  to 
bacco.  Then  he  sat  down  beside  the  bed  and  felt 
around  the  bandages  with  hands  as  gentle  as  a 
baby's. 


120    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

"Pretty  good  shape,"  he  said.  "How  did  you 
sleep  ?" 

"Oh,  occasionally,"  I  replied.  "I  would  like 
to  sit  up,  doctor." 

"Nonsense.  Take  a  rest  while  you  have  an 
excuse  for  it.  I  wish  to  thunder  I  could  stay 
in  bed  for  a  day  or  so.  I  was  up  all  night." 

"Have  a  drink,"  McKnight  said,  pushing 
over  the  bottle. 

"Twins !"    The  doctor  grinned. 

"Have  two  drinks." 

But  the  medical  man  refused. 

"I  wouldn't  even  wear  a  champagne-colored 
necktie  during  business  hours,"  he  explained. 
n'By  the  way,  I  had  another  case  from  your  ac 
cident,  Mr.  Blakeley,  late  yesterday  afternoon. 
Under  the  tongue,  please."  He  stuck  a  ther 
mometer  in  my  mouth. 

I  had  a  sudden  terrible  vision  of  the  amateur 
detective  coming  to  light,  note-book,  cheerful 
impertinence  and  incriminating  data.  "A  small 
man  ?"  I  demanded,  "gray  hair — " 

"Keep  your  mouth  closed,"  the  doctor  said 
peremptorily.  "No.  A  woman,  with  a  frac- 


THE    GOLD   BAG 

tured  skull.  Beautiful  case.  Van  Kirk  was  up 
to  his  eyes  and  sent  for  me.  Hemorrhage,  right- 
sided  paralysis,  irregular  pupils — all  the  trim 
mings.  Worked  for  two  hours." 

"Did  she  recover?"  McKnight  put  in.  He 
was  examining  the  doctor  with  a  new  awe. 

"She  lifted  her  right  arm  before  I  left,"  the 
doctor  finished  cheerily,  "so  the  operation  was  a 
success,  even  if  she  should  die." 

"Good  Heavens,"  McKnight  broke  in,  "and  I 
thought  you  were  just  an  ordinary  mortal,  like 
the  rest  of  us !  Let  me  touch  you  for  luck.  Was 
she  pretty?" 

"Yes,  and  young.  Had  a  wealth  of  bronze- 
colored  hair.  Upon  my  soul,  I  hated  to  cut  it." 

McKnight  and  I  exchanged  glances. 

"Do  you  know  her  name,  doctor?"  I  asked. 

"No.  The  nurses  said  her  clothes  cam*  from 
a  Pittsburg  tailor." 

"She  is  not  conscious,  I  suppose?" 

"No ;  she  may  be,  to-morrow — or  in  a  week." 

He  looked  at  the  thermometer,  murmured 
something  about  liquid  diet,  avoiding  my  eye — 
Mrs.  Klopton  was  broiling  a  chop  at  the  time — • 


123    THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

and  took  his  departure,  humming  cheerfully  as 
he  went  down-stairs.  McKnight  looked  after 
him  wistfully. 

"Jove,  I  wish  I  had  his  constitution,"  he  ex 
claimed.  "Neither  nerves  nor  heart!  What  a 
chauffeur  he  would  make !" 

But  I  was  serious. 

"I  have  an  idea,"  I  said  grimly,  "that  this 
small  matter  of  the  murder  is  going  to  come  up 
again,  and  that  your  uncle  will  be  in  the  deuce 
of  a  fix  if  it  does.  If  that  woman  is  going  to 
die,  somebody  ought  to  be  around  to  take  her 
deposition.  She  knows  a  lot,  if  she  didn't  do 
it  herself.  I  wish  you  would  go  down  to  the 
telephone  and  get  the  hospital.  Find  out  her 
name,  and  if  she  is  conscious." 

McKnight  went  under  protest.  "I  haven't 
much  time,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  watch.  "I'm 
to  meet  Mrs.  West  and  Alison  at  one.  I  want 
you  to  know  them,  Lollie.  You  would  like  the 
mother." 

"Why  not  the  daughter?"  I  inquired.  I 
touched  the  little  gold  bag  under  the  pillow. 

"Well,"  he  said  judicially,  "you've  always  dfc- 


THE    GOLD   BAG 

«lared  against  the  immaturity  and  romantic  non 
sense  of  very  young  women — " 

"I  never  said  anything  of  the  sort,"  I  retorted 
furiously. 

"  'There  is  more  satisfaction  to  be  had  out  of 
a  good  saddle  horse !'  "  he  quoted  me.  "  'Mora 
excitement  out  of  a  polo  pony,  and  as  for  the 
eternal  matrimonial  chase,  give  me  instead  a 
good  stubble,  a  fox,  some  decent  hounds  and  a 
hunter,  and  I'll  show  you  the  real  joys  of  the 
chase!'" 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  go  down  to  the  telephone, 
you  make  my  head  ache,"  I  said  savagely. 

I  hardly  know  what  prompted  me  to  take  out 
the  gold  purse  and  look  at  it.  It  was  an  iin- 
becile  thing  to  do — call  it  impulse,  sentimen 
tality,  what  you  wish.  I  brought  it  out,  one 
eye  on  the  door,  for  Mrs.  Klopton  has  a  ready 
eye  and  a  noiseless  shoe.  But  the  house  was 
quiet.  Down-stairs  McKnight  was  flirting  with 
the  telephone  central  and  there  was  an  odor  of 
boneset  tea  in  the  air.  I  think  Mrs.  Kloptou 
was  fascinated  out  of  her  theories  by  the  "bone- 
Bet"  in  connection  with  the  fractured  arm. 


124    THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

Anyhow,  I  held  up  the  bag  and  looked  at  it. 
It  must  have  been  unfastened,  for  the  next  in 
stant  there  was  an  avalanche  on  the  snowfield  of 
the  counterpane — some  money,  a  wisp  of  a  hand 
kerchief,  a  tiny  booklet  with  thin  leaves,  covered 
with  a  powdery  substance — and  a  necklace.  I 
drew  myself  up  slowly  and  stared  at  the  neck 
lace. 

It  was  one  of  the  semi-barbaric  affairs  that 
women  are  wearing  now,  a  heavy  pendant  o£ 
gold  chains  and  carved  cameos,  swung  from  a 
thin  neck  chain  of  the  same  metal.  The  neck 
lace  was  broken:  in  three  places  the  links  were 
pulled  apart  and  the  cameos  swung  loose  and 
partly  detached.  But  it  was  the  supporting 
chain  that  held  my  eye  and  fascinated  with  its 
sinister  suggestion.  Three  inches  of  it  had  been 
snapped  off,  and  as  well  as  I  knew  anything  on 
earth,  I  knew  that  the  bit  of  chain  that  the  ama 
teur  detective  had  found,  blood-stain  and  all, 
belonged  just  there. 

And  there  was  no  one  I  could  talk  to  about  it, 
no  one  to  tell  me  how  hideously  absurd  it  was, 
no  one  to  give  me  a  slap  and  tell  me  there  are 


THE    GOLD   BAG  185 

tons  of  fine  gold  chains  made  every  year,  or  to 
point  out  the  long  arm  of  coincidence! 

With  my  one  useful  hand  I  fumbled  the 
things  back  into  the  bag  and  thrust  it  deep  out 
of  sight  among  the  pillows.  Then  I  lay  back 
in  a  cold  perspiration.  What  connection  had 
Alison  West  with  this  crime?  Why  had  she 
stared  so  at  the  gun-metal  cigarette  case  that 
morning  on  the  train?  What  had  alarmed  her 
so  at  the  farm-house?  What  had  she  taken  back 
to  the  gate?  Why  did  she  wish  she  had  not 
escaped  from  the  wreck?  And  last,  in  Heaven's 
name,  how  did  a  part  of  her  necklace  become 
torn  off  and  covered  with  blood? 

Down-stairs  McKnight  was  still  at  the  tele 
phone,  and  amusing  himself  with  Mrs.  Klopton 
in  the  interval  of  waiting. 

"Why  did  he  come  home  in  a  gray  suit,  when 
he  went  away  in  a  blue?"  he  repeated.  "Well, 
wrecks  are  queer  things,  Mrs.  Klopton.  The 
suit  may  have  turned  gray  with  fright.  Or  per 
haps  wrecks  do  as  queer  stunts  as  lightning. 
Friend  of  mine  once  was  struck  by  lightning; 
he  and  the  caddy  had  taken  refuge  under  a  tree. 


126    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

After  the  flash,  when  they  recovered  conscious 
ness,  there  was  my  friend  in  the  caddy's  clothes, 
and  the  caddy  In  his.  And  as  my  friend  was  a 
large  man  and  the  caddy  a  very  small  boy — " 

McKnight's  story  was  interrupted  by  the  in 
dignant  slam  of  the  dining-room  door.  He  was 
obliged  to  wait  some  time,  and  even  his  eternal 
cheerfulness  was  ebbing  when  he  finally  got  the 
hospital. 

"Is  Doctor  Van  Kirk  there?"  he  asked.  "Not 
there?  Well,  can  you  tell  me  how  the  patient 
is  whom  Doctor  Williams,  from  Washington, 
operated  on  last  night?  Well,  I'm  glad  of  that. 
Is  she  conscious?  Do  you  happen  to  know  her 
name?  Yes,  I'll  hold  the  line." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  then  McKnight'a 
voice : 

"Hello — yes.  Thank  you  very  much.  Good- 
by." 

He  came  up-stairs,  two  steps  at  a  time. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  bursting  into  the  room, 
"there  may  be  something  in  your  theory,  after 
all.  The  woman's  name — it  may  be  a  coinci 
dence,  but  it's  curious — her  name  is  Sullivan." 


THE    GOLD   BAG  1«7 

**What  did  I  tell  you  ?"  I  said,  sitting  up  sud 
denly  in  bed.  "She's  probably  a  sister  of  that 
scoundrel  in  lower  seven,  and  she  was  afraid  of 
what  he  might  do." 

"Well,  I'll  go  there  some  day  soon.  She's  not 
conscious  yet.  In  the  meantime,  the  only  thing 
I  can  do  is  to  keep  an  eye,  through  a  detective^ 
on  the  people  who  try  to  approach  Bronson, 
We'll  have  the  case  continued,  anyhow,  in  the 
hope  that  the  stolen  notes  will  sooner  or  later  turn 
up." 

"Confound  this  arm,"  I  said,  paying  for  mj 
energy  with  some  excruciating  throbs.  "There's 
so  much  to  be  looked  after,  and  here  I  am,  ban 
daged,  splinted,  and  generally  useless.  It'i  a 
beastly  shame." 

"Don't  forget  that  I  am  here,"  said  Ma- 
Knight  pompously.  "And  another  thing,  when 
you  feel  this  way  just  remember  there  are  twp 
less  desirable  places  where  you  might  be.  One> 
is  jail,  and  the  other  is — "  He  strummed  on  an 
imaginary  harp,  with  devotional  eyes. 

But  McKnight's  light-heartedness  jarred  OB 
me  that  morning.  I  lay  and  frowned  under  my 


128    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

helplessness.  When  by  chance  I  touched  the 
little  gold  bag,  it  seemed  to  scorch  my  fingers. 
Richey,  finding  me  unresponsive,  left  to  keep  his 
luncheon  engagement  with  Alison  West.  As  he 
clattered  down  the  stairs,  I  turned  my  back  to 
the  morning  sunshine  and  abandoned  myself  to 
misery.  By  what  strain  on  her  frayed  nerves 
was  Alison  West  keeping  up,  I  wondered?  Un 
der  the  circumstances,  would  I  dare  to  return  the 
bag?  Knowing  that  I  had  it,  would  she  hate 
me  for  my  knowledge?  Or  had  I  exaggerated 
the  importance  of  the  necklace,  and  in  that  case 
had  she  forgotten  me  already? 

But  McKnight  had  not  gone,  after  all.  I 
heard  him  coming  back,  his  voice  preceding  him, 
and  I  groaned  with  irritation. 

"Wake  up !"  he  called.  "Somebody's  sent  you 
a  lot  of  flowers.  Please  hold  the  box,  Mrs.  Klop- 
ton ;  I'm  going  out  to  be  run  down  by  an  auto 
mobile." 

I  roused  to  feeble  interest.  My  brother's  wife 
is  punctilious  about  such  things;  all  the  new 
babies  in  the  family  have  silver  rattles,  and  all 
the  sick  people  flowers. 


THE    GOLD    BAG  129 

McKnight  pulled  up  an  armful  of  roses,  and 
held  them  out  to  me. 

"Wonder  who  they're  from?"  he  said,  fum- 
jbling  in  the  box  for  a  card.  "There's,  no  name 
— yes,  here's  one." 

He  held  it  up  and  read  it  with  exasperating 
slowness. 

"  'Best  wishes  for  an  early  recovery. 

A  COMPANION  IN  MISFORTUNE.' 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that !"  he  ex 
claimed.  "That's  something  you  didn't  tell  me, 
Lollie." 

"It  was  hardly  worth  mentioning,"  I  said 
mendaciously,  with  my  heart  beating  until  I 
could  hear  it.  She  had  not  forgotten,  after  all. 

McKnight  took  a  bud  and  fastened  it  in  his 
buttonhole.  I'm  afraid  I  was  not  especially 
pleasant  about  it.  They  were  her  roses,  and 
anyhow,  they  were  meant  for  me.  Richey  left 
very  soon,  with  an  irritating  final  grin  at  the 
box. 

"Good-by,  sir  woman-hater,"  he  jeered  at  me 
from  the  door. 


130    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

So  he  wore  one  of  the  roses  she  had  sent  me, 
to  luncheon  with  her,  and  I  lay  back  among  my 
pillows  and  tried  to  remember  that  it  was  his 
game,  anyhow,  and  that  I  wasn't  even  drawing 
cards.  To  remember  that,  and  to  forget  the 
broken  necklace  under  my  head! 


CHAPTER 


FADED  KOSES 

I  WAS  in  the  house  for  a  week.  Much  of 
that  time  I  spent  in  composing  and  de 
stroying  letters  of  thanks  to  Miss  West,  and 
in  growling  at  the  doctor.  McKnight  dropped 
in  daily,  but  he  was  less  cheerful  than  usual. 
Now  and  then  I  caught  him  eying  me  as  if  he 
had  something  to  say,  but  whatever  it  was  he 
kept  it  to  himself.  Once  during  the  week  he 
went  to  Baltimore  and  saw  the  woman  in  the 
hospital  there.  From  the  description  I  had  little 
difficulty  in  recognizing  the  young  woman  who 
had  been  with  the  murdered  man  in  Pittsburg. 
But  she  was  still  unconscious.  An  elderly  aunt 
had  appeared,  a  gaunt  person  in  black,  who  sat 
around  like  a  buzzard  on  a  fence,  according  to 
McKnight,  and  wept,  in  a  mixed  figure,  into  a 
damp  handkerchief. 

131 


132    THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

On  the  last  day  of  my  imprisonment  he 
stopped  in  to  thrash  out  a  case  that  was  com 
ing  up  in  court  the  next  day,  and  to  play  a 
game  of  double  solitaire  with  me. 

"Who  won  the  ball  game  ?"  I  asked. 

"We  were  licked.  Ask  me  something  pleas 
ant.  Oh,  by  the  way,  Bronson's  out  to-day." 

"I'm  glad  I'm  not  on  his  bond,"  I  said  pes 
simistically.  "He'll  clear  out." 

"Not  he."  McKnight  pounced  on  my  ace. 
"He's  no  fool.  Don't  you  suppose  he  knows 
you  took  those  notes  to  Pittsburg?  The  papers 
were  full  of  it.  And  he  knows  you  escaped  with 
your  life  and  a  broken  arm  from  the  wreck. 
What  do  we  do  next?  The  Commonwealth  con 
tinues  the  case.  A  deaf  man  on  a  dark  night 
would  know  those  notes  are  missing." 

"Don't  play  so  fast,"  I  remonstrated.  "I 
have  only  one  arm  to  your  two.  Who  is  trailing 
Bronson?  Did  you  try  to  get  Johnson?" 

"I  asked  for  him,  but  he  had  some  work  on 
hand." 

"The  murder's  evidently  a  dead  io&tie,"  I 
reflected.  "No,  I'm  not  joking.  The  wreck 


FADED   ROSES  133 

destroyed  all  the  evidence.  But  I'm  firmly  con 
vinced  those  notes  will  be  offered,  either  to  us 

or  to  Bronson  very  soon.     Johnson's  a  black- 
| 
guard,  but  he's  a  good  detective.     He  could 

make  his  fortune  as  a  game  dog.  What's  he 
doing?" 

McKnight  put  down  his  cards,  and  rising, 
went  to  the  window.  !A.s  he  held  the  curtain  back 
his  customary  grin  looked  a  little  forced. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  Lollie,"  he  said,  "for 
the  last  two  days  he  has  been  watching  a  well- 
known  Washington  attorney  named  Lawrence 
Blakeley.  He's  across  the  street  now." 

It  took  a  moment  for  me  to  grasp  what  he 
meant. 

"Why,  it's  ridiculous,"  I  asserted.  "What 
would  they  trail  me  for  ?  Go  over  and  tell  John 
son  to  get  out  of  there,  or  I'll  pot  at  him  with 

my  revolver." 

\ 

"You  can  tell  him  that  yourself."  McKnight 
paused  and  bent  forward.  "Hello,  here's  a  vis 
itor  ;  little  man  with  string  halt." 

"I  won't  see  him,"  I  said  firmly.  "I've  been 
bothered  enough  with  reporters." 


134    THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

We  listened  together  to  Mrs.  Klopton's  ex 
postulating  tones  in  the  lower  hall  and  the  creak 
of  the  boards  as  she  came  heavily  up  the  stairs. 
She  had  a  piece  of  paper  in  her  hand  torn  from  i 
a  pocket  account-book,  and  on  it  was  the  name, 
"Mr.  Wilson  Budd  Hotchkiss.  Important  busi 
ness." 

"Oh,  well,  show  him  up,"  I  said  resignedly. 
"You'd  better  put  those  cards  away,  Richey.  I 
fancy  it's  the  rector  of  the  church  around  the 
corner." 

But  when  the  door  opened  to  admit  a  curi 
ously  alert  little  man,  adjusting  his  glasses  with 
nervous  fingers,  my  face  must  have  shown  my 
dismay. 

It  was  the  amateur  detective  of  the  Ontario! 

I  shook  hands  without  enthusiasm.  Here  was 
the  one  survivor  of  the  wrecked  car  who  could 
do  me  any  amount  of  harm.  There  was  no  hope 
that  he  had  forgotten  any  of  the  incriminating 
details.  In  fact,  he  held  in  his  hand  the  very 
note-book  which  contained  them. 

His  manner  was  restrained,  but  it  was  evident 
he  was  highly  excited.  I  introduced  him  to  Mo- 


FADED    ROSES  135 

Knight,  who  has  the  imagination  I  lack,  and  who 
placed  him  at  once,  mentally. 

"I  only  learned  yesterday  that  you  had  been 
'— er — saved,"  he  said  rapidly.  "Terrible  acci 
dent — unspeakable.  Dream  about  it  all  night 
and  think  about  it  all  day.  Broken  arm?" 

"No.  He  just  wears  the  splint  to  be  different 
from  other  people,"  McKnight  drawled  lazily. 
I  glared  at  him :  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained 
by  antagonizing  the  little  man. 

"Yes,  a  fractured  humerus,  which  isn't  as 
funny  as  it  sounds." 

"Humerus — humorous!  Pretty  good,"  he 
cackled.  "I  must  say  you  keep  up  your  spirits 
pretty  well,  considering  everything." 

"You  seem  to  have  escaped  injury,"  I  parried. 
He  was  fumbling  for  something  in  his  pockets. 

"Yes,  I  escaped,"  he  replied  abstractedly. 
"Remarkable  thing,  too.  I  haven't  a  doubt  I 
would  have  broken  my  neck,  but  I  landed  on— 
you'll  never  guess  what!  I  landed  head  first  on 
the  very  pillow  which  was  under  inspection  at 
the  time  of  the  wreck.  You  remember,  don't 
you?  Where  did  I  put  that  package?" 


136    THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

He  found  it  finally  and  opened  it  on  a  table, 
displaying1  with  some  theatricalism  a  rectangular 
piece  of  muslin  and  a  similar  patch  of  striped 
ticking. 

"You  recognize  it?"  he  said.  "The  stains, 
you  see,  and  the  hole  made  by  the  dirk.  I  tried 
to  bring  away  the  entire  pillow,  but  they 
thought  I  was  stealing  it,  and  made  me  give  it 
up." 

Richey  touched  the  pieces  gingerly.  "By 
George,"  he  said,  "and  you  carry  that  around 
in  your  pocket!  What  if  you  should  mistake 
it  for  your  handkerchief?" 

But  Mr.  Hotchkiss  was  not  listening.  He 
stood  bent  somewhat  forward,  leaning  over  the 
table,  and  fixed  me  with  his  ferret-like  eyes. 

"Have  you  seen  the  evening  papers,  Mr. 
Blakeley?"  he  inquired. 

I  glanced  to  where  they  lay  unopened,  and 
shook  my  head. 

"Then  I  have  a  disagreeable  task,"  he  said 
with  evident  relish.  "Of  course,  you  had  con 
sidered  the  matter  of  the  man  Harrington's 
death  closed,  after  the  wreck.  I  did  myself. 


FADED    ROSES  137 

As  far  as  I  was  concerned,  I  meant  to 
let  it  remain  so.  There  were  no  other  survivors, 
at  least  none  that  I  knew  of,  and  in  spite  of  cir 
cumstances,  there  were  a  number  of  points  in 
your  favor." 

"Thank  you,"  I  put  in  with  a  sarcasm  that 
was  lost  on  him. 

"I  verified  your  identity,  for  instance,  as  soon 
as  I  recovered  from  the  shock.  Also — I  found 
on  inquiring  of  your  tailor  that  you  invariably 
wore  dark  clothing." 

McKnight  came  forward  threateningly.  "Who 
are  you,  anyhow?"  he  demanded.  "And  how  is 
this  any  business  of  yours?"  Mr.  Hotchkiss 
was  entirely  unruffled. 

"I  have  a  minor  position  here,"  he  said,  reach 
ing  for  a  visiting  card.  "I  am  a  very  small 
patch  on  the  seat  of  government,  sir." 

McKnight  muttered  something  about  certain 
offensive  designs  against  the  said  patch  and  re 
tired  grumbling  to  the  window.  Our  visitor  was 
opening  the  paper  with  a  tremendous  expendi 
ture  of  energy. 

"Here  it  is.  Listen."  He  read  rapidly  aloud : 


"The  Pittsburg  police  have  sent  to  Baltimore 
two  detectives  who  are  looking  up  the  survivors 
of  the  ill-fated  Washington  Flier.  It  has 
transpired  that  Simon  Harrington,  the  Wood 
Street  merchant  of  that  city,  was  not  killed  in 
the  wreck,  but  was  murdered  in  his  berth  the 
night  preceding  the  accident.  Shortly  before 
the  collision,  John  Flanders,  the  conductor  of 
the  Flier,  sent  this  telegram  to  the  chief  of  po 
lice: 

"  'Body  of  Simon  Harrington  found  stabbed 
in  his  berth,  lower  ten,  Ontario,  at  six-thirty 
this  morning.  JOHN  FLANDERS,  Conductor.' 

"It  is  hoped  that  the  survivors  of  the  wrecked 
car  Ontario  will  be  found,  to  tell  what  they  know 
of  the  discovery  of  the  crime. 

"Mr.  John  Gilmore,  head  of  the  steel  company 
for  which  Mr.  Harrington  was  purchasing 
agent,  has  signified  his  intention  of  sifting  the 
matter  to  the  bottom." 

"So  you  see,**  Hotchkiss  concluded,  "there's 
trouble  brewing.  You  and  I  are  the  only  sur 
vivors  of  that  unfortunate  car." 


FADED    ROSES  13f 

I  did  not  contradict  him,  but  I  knew  of  two 
others,  at  least:  Alison  West,  and  the  woman 
we  had  left  beside  the  road  that  morning,  bab 
bling  incoherently,  her  black  hair  tumbling  overf 
her  white  face. 

"Unless  we  can  find  the  man  who  occupied 
lower  seven,"  I  suggested. 

"I  have  already  tried  and  failed.  To  find 
him  would  not  clear  you,  of  course,  unless  we 
could  establish  some  connection  between  him  and 
the  murdered  man.  It  is  the  only  thing  I  see, 
however.  I  have  learned  this  much,"  Hotchkiss 
concluded:  "Lower  seven  was  reserved  from 
Cresson." 

Cresson !  Where  Alison  West  and  Mrs.  Cur 
tis  had  taken  the  train ! 

McKnight  came  forward  and  suddenly  held 
out  his  hand.  "Mr.  Hotchkiss,"  he  said,  "I — 
I'm  sorry  if  I  have  been  offensive.  I  thought 
when  you  came  in,  that,  like  the  Irishman  and( 
the  government,  you  were  'forninst'  us.  If  you 
will  put  those  cheerful  relics  out  of  sight  some 
where,  I  should  be  glad  to  have  you  dine  with 
me  at  the  Incubator."  (His  name  for  his  backe- 


140    THE    MAN    IN   LOWER    TEN 

lor  apartment.)  "Compared  with  Johnson,  you 
are  the  great  original  protoplasm." 

The  strength  of  this  was  lost  on  Hotchkiss, 
|  but  the  invitation  was  clear.  They  went  out  to 
gether,  and  from  my  window  I  watched  them  get 
into  McKnight's  car.  It  was  raining,  and  at 
the  corner  the  Cannonball  skidded.  Across  the 
street  my  detective,  Johnson,  looked  after  them 
with  his  crooked  smile.  As  he  turned  up  his 
collar  he  saw  me,  and  lifted  his  hat. 

I  left  the  window  and  sat  down  in  the  growing 
dusk.  So  the  occupant  of  lower  seven  had  got 
on  the  car  at  Cresson,  probably  with  Alison 
West  and  her  companion.  There  was  some  one 
she  cared  about  enough  to  shield.  I  went  ir 
ritably  to  the  door  and  summoned  Mrs.  Klopton. 

"You  may  throw  out  those  roses,"  I  said, 
without  looking  at  her.  "They  are  quite  dead." 

"They  have  been  quite  dead  for  three  days," 
she  retorted  spitefully.  "Euphemia  said  you 
threatened  to  dismiss  her  if  she  touched  thenx" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  TKAP-DOOR 

BY  Sunday  evening,  a  week  after  the  wreck, 
ray  forced  inaction  had  goaded  me  to  fren 
zy.  The  very  sight  of  Johnson  across  the  street 
or  lurking,  always  within  sight  of  the  house, 
kept  me  constantly  exasperated.  It  was  on  that 
iday  that  things  began  to  come  to  a  focus,  a 
burning-glass  of  events  that  seemed  to  center  on 
me. 

I  dined  alone  that  evening  in  no  cheerful 
frame  of  mind.  There  had  been  a  polo  game  the 
iday  before  and  I  had  lent  a  pony,  which  is  al 
ways  a  bad  thing  to  do.  And  she  had  wrenched 
her  shoulder,  besides  helping  to  lose  the  game.. 
There  was  no  one  in  town :  the  temperature  was 
ninety  and  climbing,  and  my  left  hand  per 
sistently  cramped  under  its  bandage. 


149    THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

Mrs.  Klopton  herself  saw  me  served,  my  bread 
buttered  and  cut  in  tidbits,  my  meat  ready  for 
my  fork.  She  hovered  around  me  maternally, 
obviously  trying  to  cheer  me. 

"The  paper  says  still  warmer,"  she  ventured. 
AThe  thermometer  is  ninety-two  now." 

"And  this  coffee  is  two  hundred  and  fifty,"  I 
•aid,  putting  down  my  cup.  "Where  is  Eu- 
phemia?  I  haven't  seen  her  around,  or  heard 
a  dish  smash  all  day." 

"Euphemia  is  in  bed,"  Mrs.  Klopton  said 
gravely.  "Is  your  meat  cut  small  enough,  Mr. 
Lawrence?"  Mrs.  Klopton  can  throw  more  mys 
tery  into  an  ordinary  sentence  than  any  one  I 
know.  She  can  say,  "Are  your  sheets  damp, 
sir?"  And  I  can  tell  from  her  tone  that  the 
house  across  the  street  has  been  robbed,  or  that 
my  left  hand  neighbor  has  appendicitis.  So  now 
I  looked  up  and  asked  the  question  she  was  wait 
ing  for. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Euphemia?"  I  in 
quired  idly. 

"Frightened  into  her  bed,"  Mrs.  Klopton  said 
in  a  stage  whisper.  "She's  had  three  hot  water 


THE    TRAP-BOOK  14* 

fcottles  and  she  hasn't  done  a  thing  all  day  but 
moan." 

"She  oughtn't  to  take  hot  water  bottles,"  I 
said  in  my  severest  tone.  "One  would  make  me 
moan.  You  need  not  wait,  I'll  ring  if  I  need 
anything." 

Mrs.  Klopton  sailed  to  the  door,  where  she 
stopped  and  wheeled  indignantly.  "I  only  hope 
you  won't  laugh  on  the  wrong  side  of  your  face 
some  morning,  Mr.  Lawrence,"  she  declared, 
with  Christian  fortitude.  "But  I  warn  you,  I 
am  going  to  have  the  police  watch  that  house 
next  door." 

I  was  half  inclined  to  tell  her  that  both  it  and 
we  were  under  police  surveillance  at  that  mo 
ment.  But  I  like  Mrs.  Klopton,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  I  make  her  life  a  torment  for  her,  so 
I  refrained. 

"Last  night,  when  the  paper  said  it  was  go-, 
ing  to  storm,  I  sent  Euphemia  to  the  roof  to 
bring  the  rugs  in.  Eliza  had  slipped  out,  al 
though  it  was  her  evening  in.  Euphemia  went 
up  to  the  roof — it  was  eleven  o'clock — and  soon 
I  heard  her  running  down-stairs  crying.  When 


144.    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

she  got  to  my  room  she  just  folded  up  on  the 
floor.  She  said  there  was  a  black  figure  sitting 
on  the  parapet  of  the  house  next  door — the 
empty  house — and  that  when  she  appeared  it 
rose  and  waved  long  black  arms  at  her  and  spit 
like  a  cat." 

I  had  finished  my  dinner  and  was  lighting  a 
cigarette.  "If  there  was  any  one  up  there, 
which  I  doubt,  they  probably  sneezed,"  I  sug 
gested.  "But  if  you  feel  uneasy,  I'll  take  a  look 
around  the  roof  to-night  before  I  turn  in.  As 
far  as  Euphemia  goes,  I  wouldn't  be  uneasy 
about  her — doesn't  she  always  have  an  attack 
of  some  sort  when  Eliza  rings  in  an  extra  even 
ing  on  her?" 

So  I  made  a  superficial  examination  of  the 
window  locks  that  night,  visiting  parts  of  the 
house  that  I  had  not  seen  since  I  bought  it. 
Then  I  went  to  the  roof.  Evidently  it  had  not 
been  intended  for  any  purpose  save  to  cover  the 
house,  for  unlike  the  houses  around,  there  was 
no  staircase.  A  ladder  and  a  trap-door  led  to 
it,  and  it  required  some  nice  balancing  on  my 
part  to  get  up  with  my  useless  arm.  I  made  it, 


THE    TRAP-DOOR  145 

however,  and  found  this  unexplored  part  of  my 
domain  rather  attractive.  It  was  cooler  than 
down-stairs,  and  I  sat  on  the  brick  parapet  and 

[smoked  my  final  cigarette.  The  roof  of  the 
empty  house  adjoined  mine  along  the  back  wing, 
but  investigation  showed  that  the  trap-door 
across  the  low  dividing  wall  was  bolted  under 
neath. 

There  was  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  any 
where,  and  so  I  assured  Mrs.  Klopton.  Need 
less  to  say,  I  did  not  tell  her  that  I  had  left  the 
trap-door  open,  to  see  if  it  would  improve  the 
temperature  of  the  house.  I  went  to  bed  at 
midnight,  merely  because  there  was  nothing  else 
to  do.  I  turned  on  the  night  lamp  at  the  head 
of  my  bed,  and  picked  up  a  volume  of  Shaw  at 
random  (it  was  Arms  and  the  Man,  and  I  re 
member  thinking  grimly  that  I  was  a  good  bit 
of  a  chocolate  cream  soldier  myself),  and  pre- 

'  pared  to  go  to  sleep.  Shaw  always  puts  me  to 
sleep.  I  have  no  apologies  to  make  for  what 
occurred  that  night,  and  not  even  an  explana 
tion  that  I  am  sure  of.  I  did  a  foolish  thing 
under  impulse,  and  I  have  not  been  sorry. 


146    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

It  was  something  after  two  when  the  door 
bell  rang.  It  rang  quickly,  twice.  I  got  up 
drowsily,  for  the  maids  and  Mrs.  Klopton  al 
ways  lock  themselves  beyond  reach  of  the  belli 
at  night,  and  put  on  a  dressing-gown.  The 
bell  rang  again  on  my  way  down-stairs.  I  lit 
the  hall  light  and  opened  the  door.  I  was  wide 
awake  now,  and  I  saw  that  it  was  Johnson.  His 
bald  head  shone  in  the  light — his  crooked  mouth 
was  twisted  in  a  smile. 

"Good  Heavens,  man,"  I  said  irritably. 
"Don't  you  ever  go  home  and  go  to  bed?" 

He  closed  the  vestibule  door  behind  him  and 
cavalierly  turned  out  the  light.  Our  dialogue 
was  sharp,  staccato. 

"Have  you  a  key  to  the  empty  house  next 
door?"  he  demanded.  "Somebody's  in  there, 
and  the  latch  is  caught." 

"The  houses  are  alike.  The  key  to  this  door 
may  fit.  Did  you  see  them  go  in  ?" 

"No.  There's  a  light  moving  up  from  room 
to  room.  I  saw  something  like  it  last  night,  and 
I  have  been  watching.  The  patrolman  reported 
queer  doings  there  a  week  or  so  ago." 


THE    TRAP-DOOR  147 

*A  light  P*  I  exclaimed.  "Do  you  mean  that 
you — " 

"Very  likely,"  he  said  grimly.  "Have  you  a 
•  revolver  ?" 

"All  kinds  in  the  gun  rack,"  I  replied,  and 
going  into  the  den,  I  came  back  with  a  Smith 
and  Wesson.  "I'm  not  much  use,"  I  explained, 
"with  this  arm,  but  I'll  do  what  I  can.  There 
maj'  be  somebody  there.  The  servants  here  have 
been  uneasy." 

Johnson  planned  the  campaign.  He  sug 
gested  on  account  of  my  familiarity  with  the 
roof,  that  I  go  there  and  cut  off  escape  in  that 
direction.  "I  have  Robison  out  there  now — the 
patrolman  on  the  beat,"  he  said.  "He'll  watch 
below  and  you  above,  while  I  search  the  house. 
Be  as  quiet  as  possible." 

I  was  rather  amused.  I  put  on  some  clothes 
and  felt  my  way  carefully  up  the  stairs,  the 
revolver  swinging  free  in  my  pocket,  my  hand 
on  the  rail.  At  the  foot  of  the  ladder  I  stopped 
and  looked  up.  Above  me  there  was  a  gray 
rectangle  of  sky  dotted  with  stars.  It  oc 
curred  to  me  that  with  my  one  serviceable  hand 


148    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

holding  the  ladder,  I  was  hardly  in  a  position 
to  defend  myself,  that  I  was  about  to  hoist  a 
body  that  I  am  rather  careful  of  into  a  danger 
I  couldn't  see  and  wasn't  particularly  keen  about 
anyhow.  I  don't  mind  saying  that  the  seconds 
it  took  me  to  scramble  up  the  ladder  were  among 
the  most  unpleasant  that  I  recall. 

I  got  to  the  top,  however,  without  incident. 
I  could  see  fairly  well  after  the  darkness  of  the 
house  beneath,  but  there  was  nothing  suspicious 
in  sight.  The  roofs,  separated  by  two  feet 
of  brick  wall,  stretched  around  me,  unbroken 
save  by  an  occasional  chimney.  I  went  very 
softly  over  to  the  other  trap,  the  one  belonging 
to  the  suspected  house.  It  was  closed,  but  I 
imagined  I  could  hear  Johnson's  footsteps 
ascending  heavily.  Then  even  that  was  gone. 
A  near-by  clock  struck  three  as  I  stood  waiting. 
I  examined  my  revolver  then,  for  the  first  time, 
and  found  it  was  empty ! 

I  had  been  rather  skeptical  until  now.  I  had 
had  the  usual  tolerant  attitude  of  the  man  who  is 
summoned  from  his  bed  to  search  for  burglars, 
combined  with  the  artificial  courage  of  firearms. 


THE    TRAP-DOOR  149 

With  the  discovery  of  my  empty  gun,  I  felt 
like  a  man  on  the  top  of  a  volcano  in  lively  erup 
tion.  Suddenly  I  found  myself  staring  incredu 
lously  at  the  trap-door  at  my  feet.  I  had 
examined  it  early  in  the  evening  and  found  it 
bolted.  Did  I  imagine  it,  or  had  it  raised  about 
an  inch?  Wasn't  it  moving  slowly  as  I  looked? 
No,  I  am  not  a  hero:  I  was  startled  almost  into 
a  panic.  I  had  one  arm,  and  whoever  was  rais 
ing  that  trap-door  had  two.  My  knees  had  a 
queer  inclination  to  bend  the  wrong  way. 

Johnson's  footsteps  were  distinct  enough,  but 
he  was  evidently  far  below.  The  trap,  raised 
perhaps  two  inches  now,  remained  stationary. 
There  was  no  sound  from  beneath  it:  once  I 
thought  I  heard  two  or  three  gasping  respira 
tions:  I  am  not  sure  they  were  not  my  own.  I 
wanted  desperately  to  stand  on  one  leg  at  a  time 
and  hold  the  other  up  out  of  focus  of  a  possible 
' revolver. 

I  did  not  see  the  hand  appear.  There  was 
nothing  there,  and  then  it  was  there,  clutching 
the  frame  of  the  trap.  I  did  the  only  thing  I 
could  think  of ;  I  put  my  foot  on  it ! 


150    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

There  was  not  a  sound  from  beneath.     The 
•next  moment  I  was  kneeling  and  had  clutched 
the  wrist  just  above  the  hand.    After  a  second's 
struggle,  the  arm  was  still.     With  something, 
real  to  face,  I  was  myself  again. 

"Don't  move,  or  I'll  stand  on  the  trap  and 
break  your  arm,"  I  panted.  What  else  could  I 
threaten?  I  couldn't  shoot,  I  couldn't  even 
€ght.  "Johnson!"  I  called. 

And  then  I  realized  the  thing  that  stayed  with 
me  for  a  month,  the  thing  I  can  not  think  of 
even  now  without  a  shudder.  The  hand  lay  ice 
cold,  strangely  quiescent.  Under  my  fingers, 
an  artery  was  beating  feebly.  The  wrist  was  as 

slender  as 1  held  the  hand  to  the  light.  Then 

I  let  it  drop. 

"Good  Lord,"  I  muttered,  and  remained  on 
my  knees,  staring  at  the  spot  where  the  hand 
had  been.     It  was  gone  now:  there  was  a  faint,j 
rustle  in  the  darkness  below,  and  then  silence. 

I  held  up  my  own  hand  in  the  starlight  and 
stared  at  a  long  scratch  in  the  palm.  *'A 
woman!"  I  said  to  myself  stupidly.  "By  aH 
that's  ridiculous,  a  woman !" 


THE    TRAP-DOOR 

Johnson  was  striking  matches  below  and 
swearing  softly  to  himself.  "How  the  devil  do 
you  get  to  the  roof?"  he  called.  "I  think  I've 
broken  my  nose!" 

He  found  the  ladder  after  a  short  search  and 
stood  at  the  bottom,  looking  up  at  me.  "Well, 
I  suppose  you  haven't  seen  him?"  he  inquired. 
"There  rre  enough  darned  cubbyholes  in  thia 
house  to  hide  a  patrol  wagon  load  of  thieves." 
He  lighted  a  fresh  match.  "Hello,  here's  an 
other  door !" 

By  the  sound  of  his  diminishing  footsteps  I 
supposed  it  was  a  rear  staircase.  He  came  up 
again  in  ten  minutes  or  so,  this  time  with  the 
policeman. 

"He's  gone,  all  right,"  he  said  ruefully.  "If 
you'd  been  attending  to  your  business,  Robison, 
you'd  have  watched  the  back  door." 

"I'm  not  twins."    Robison  was  surly. 

"Well,"  I  broke  in,  as  cheerfully  as  I  could, 
"if  you  are  through  with  this  jolly  little  affair, 
and  can  get  down  my  ladder  without  having  my 
housekeeper  ring  the  burglar  alarm,  I  have  some 
good  Monongahela  whisky — eh  ?" 


152    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

They  came  without  a  second  invitation  across 
the  roof,  and  with  them  safely  away  from  the 
house  I  breathed  more  freely.  Down  in  the  den 

I  fulfilled  my  promise,  which  Johnson  drank  to 

*» 

the  toast,  "Coming  through  the  rye."  He  ex 
amined  my  gun  rack  with  the  eye  of  a  connois 
seur,  and  even  when  he  was  about  to  go  he  cast 
a  loving  eye  back  at  the  weapons. 

"Ever  been  in  the  army  ?"  he  inquired. 

"No,"  I  said  with  a  bitterness  that  he  noticed 
but  failed  to  comprehend.  "I'm  a  chocolate 
cream  soldier — you  don't  read  Shaw,  I  suppose. 
Johnson  ?" 

"Never  heard  of  him,"  the  detective  said  in 
differently.  "Well,  good  night,  Mr.  Blakeley. 
Much  obliged."  At  the  door  he  hesitated  and 
coughed. 

"I  suppose  you  understand,  Mr.  Blakeley," 
he  said  awkwardly,  "that  this — er — surveillance 
is  all  in  the  day's  work.  I  don't  like  it,  but  it's 
duty.  Every  man  to  his  duty,  sir." 

"Sometime  when  you  are  in  an  open  mood? 
Johnson,"  I  returned,  "you  can  explain  why  I 
am  being  watched  at  all." 


CHAPTER   XV 

THE    CINEMATOGRAPH. 

ON  Monday  I  went  out  for  the  first  time.  I 
did  not  go  to  the  office.  I  wanted  to  walk. 
I  thought  fresh  air  and  exercise  would  drive 
away  the  blue  devils  that  had  me  by  the  throat. 
McKnight  insisted  on  a  long  day  in  his  car,  but 
I  refused. 

"I  don't  know  why  not,"  he  said  sulkily.  <CI 
can't  walk.  I  haven't  walked  two  consecutive 
blocks  in  three  years.  Automobiles  have  made 
legs  mere  ornaments — and  some  not  even  that. 
We  could  have  Johnson  out  there  chasing  us 
over  the  country  at  five  dollars  an  hour !" 

"He  can  chase  us  just  as  well  at  five  miles  an 
hour,"  I  said.     "But  what  gets  me,  McKnight, 
is  why  I  am  under  surveillance  at  all.    How  do 
the  police  know  /  was  accused  of  that  thing?" 
153 


154    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

"The  young  lady  who  sent  the  flowers — she 
isn't  likely  to  talk,  is  she  ?" 

"No.  That  is,  I  didn't  say  it  was  a  lady."  I 
groaned  as  I  tried  to  get  my  splinted  arm  into  a 
coat.  "Anyhow,  she  didn't  tell,"  I  finished  with 
conviction,  and  McKnight  laughed. 

It  had  rained  in  the  early  morning,  and  Mrs. 
Klopton  predicted  more  showers.  In  fact,  so  firm 
was  her  belief  and  so  determined  her  eye  that  I 
took  the  umbrella  she  proffered  me. 

"Never  mind,"  I  said.  "We  can  leave  it  next 
door ;  I  have  a  story  to  tell  you,  Richey,  and  it 
requires  proper  setting." 

McKnight  was  puzzled,  but  he  followed  nre 
obediently  around  to  the  kitchen  entrance  of  the 
empty  house.  It  was  unlocked,  as  I  had  ex 
pected.  While  we  climbed  to  the  upper  floor  I 
retailed  the  events  of  the  previous  night. 

"It's  the  finest  thing  I  ever  heard  of,"  Mc 
Knight  said,  staring  up  at  the  ladder  and  the 
trap.  "What  a  vaudeville  skit  it  would  make! 
Only  you  ought  not  to  have  put  your  foot  on  her 
hand.  They  don't  do  it  in  the  best  circles.** 


THE    CINEMATOGRAPH          15i 

I  wheeled  on  him  impatiently. 

"You  don't  understand  the  situation  at  all, 
Richey !"  I  exclaimed.  "What  would  you  say  if 
I  tell  you  it  was  the  hand  of  a  lady?  It  was 
covered  with  rings." 

"A  lady !"  he  repeated.  "Why,  I'd  say  it  was 
a  darned  compromising  situation,  and  that  the 
less  you  say  of  it  the  better.  Look  here,  Law 
rence,  I  think  you  dreamed  it.  You've  been  in 
the  house  too  much.  I  take  it  all  back:  you  do 
need  exercise." 

"She  escaped  through  this  door,  I  suppose," 
I  said  as  patiently  as  I  could.  "Evidently  down 
the  back  staircase.  We  might  as  well  go  down 
that  way." 

"According  to  the  best  precedents  in  these 
affairs,  we  should  find  a  glove  about  here,"  he 
said  as  we  started  down.  But  he  was  more  im 
pressed  than  he  cared  to  own.  He  examined  the 
dusty  steps  carefully,  and  once,  when  a  bit  of, 
loose  plaster  fell  just  behind  him,  he  started  like 
a  nervous  woman. 

"What  I  don't  understand  is  why  you  let  her 


go,"  he  said,  stopping  once,  puzzled.  "You're 
not  usually  quixotic." 

"When  we  get  out  into  the  country,  Richey," 
I  replied  gravely,  "I  am  going  to  tell  you  an 
other  story,  and  if  you  don't  tell  me  I'm  a  fool 
and  a  craven,  on  the  strength  of  it,  you  are  no 
friend  of  mine." 

We  stumbled  through  the  twilight  of  the  stair 
case  into  the  blackness  of  the  shuttered  kitchen. 
The  house  had  the  moldy  smell  of  closed  build 
ings:  even  on  that  warm  September  morning  it 
was  damp  and  chilly.  As  we  stepped  into  the 
sunshine  McKnight  gave  a  shiver. 

"Now  that  we  are  out,"  he  said,  "I  don't  mind 
telling  you  that  I  have  been  there  before.  Do 
you  remember  the  night  you  left,  and  the  face  at 
the  window  ?" 

"When  you  speak  of  it — yes." 

"Well,  I  was  curious  about  that  thing,"  he 
went  on,  as  we  started  up  the  street,  "and  I  went 
back.  The  street  door  was  unlocked,  and  I  ex 
amined  every  room.  I  was  Mrs.  Klopton's  ghost 
that  carried  a  light,  and  clumb." 

"Did  you  find  anything?" 


THE    CINEMATOGRAPH          157 

"Only  a  clean  place  rubbed  on  the  window 
opposite  your  dressing-room.  Splendid  view  of 
an  untidy  interior.  If  that  house  is  ever  occu 
pied,  you'd  better  put  stained  glass  in  that 
window  of  yours." 

As  we  turned  the  corner  I  glanced  back.  Half 
a  block  behind  us  Johnson  was  moving  our  way 
slowly.  When  he  saw  me  he  stopped  and  pro 
ceeded  with  great  deliberation  to  light  a  cigar. 
By  hurrying,  however,  he  caught  the  car  that 
we  took,  and  stood  unobtrusively  on  the  rear 
platform.  He  looked  fagged,  and  absent- 
mindedly  paid  our  fares,  to  McKnight's  de- 
light. 

"We  will  give  him  a  run  for  his  moneys"  he 
declared,  as  the  car  moved  countryward.  "Con 
ductor,  let  us  off  at  the  muddiest  lane  you  can 
find." 

At  one  o'clock,  after  a  six-mile  ramble,  we 
entered  a  small  country  hotel.  We  had  seen 
nothing  of  Johnson  for  a  half  hour.  At  that 
time  he  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  behind  us,  and 
losing  rapidly.  Before  we  had  finished  our 
luncheon  he  staggered  into  the  inn.  One  of  his 


158    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

boots  was  under  his  arm,  and  his  whole  appear 
ance  was  deplorable.  He  was  coated  with  mud, 
streaked  with  perspiration,  and  he  limped  as  he 
walked.  He  chose  a  table  not  far  from  us  and 
ordered  Scotch.  Beyond  touching  his  hat  he 
paid  no  attention  to  us. 

"I'm  just  getting  my  second  wind,"  McKnight 
declared.  "How  do  you  feel,  Mr.  Johnson  ?  Six 
or  eight  miles  more  and  we'll  all  enjoy  our  din 
ners."  Johnson  put  down  the  glass  he  had  raised 
to  his  lips  without  replying. 

The  fact  was,  however,  that  I  was  like  John 
son.  I  was  soft  from  my  week's  inaction,  and  I 
was  pretty  well  done  up.  McKnight,  who  was 
a  well  spring  of  vitality  and  high  spirits,  ordered 
a  strange  concoction,  made  of  nearly  everything 
in  the  bar,  and  sent  it  over  to  the  detective,  bui 
JohnsoR  refused  it. 

"I  hate  that  kind  of  person,"  McKnight 
said  pettishly.  "Kind  of  a  fellow  that  thinks 
you're  going  to  poison  his  dog  if  you  offer  him 
a  bone." 

When  we  got  back  to  the  car  line,  with  John 
son  a  draggled  and  drooping  tail  to  the  kite,  I 


THE    CINEMATOGRAPH          159 

was  in  better  spirits.  I  had  told  McKnight  the 
story  of  the  three  hours  just  after  the  wreck;  I 
had  not  named  the  girl,  of  course;  she  had  my 
promise  of  secrecy.  But  I  told  him  everything 
else.  It  was  a  relief  to  have  a  fresh  mind  on  it :  I 
had  puzzled  so  much  over  the  incident  at  the 
farm-house,  and  the  necklace  in  the  gold  bag, 
that  I  had  lost  perspective. 

He  had  been  interested,  but  inclined  to  be 
amused,  until  I  came  to  the  broken  chain.  Then 
he  had  whistled  softly. 

"But  there  are  tons  of  fine  gold  chains  made 
every  year,"  he  said.  "Why  in  the  world  do  you 
think  that  the — er — smeary  piece  came  from 
that  necklace  ?" 

I  had  looked  around.  Johnson  was  far  be 
hind,  scraping  the  mud  off  his  feet  with  a  piece 
of  stick. 

"I  have  the  short  end  of  the  chain  in  the  seal 
skin  bag,"  I  reminded  him.  "When  I  couldn't  | 
sleep  this  morning  I  thought  I  would  settle  it, 
one  way  or  the  other.  It  was  hell  to  go  along 
the  way  I  had  been  doing.  And — there's  no 
idoubt  about  it,  Rich.  It's  the  same  chain." 


160    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

We  walked  along  in  silence  until  we  caught 
the  car  back  to  town. 

"Well,"  he  said  finally,  "you  know  the  girl, 
of  course,  and  I  don't.  But  if  you  like  her — and 
I  think  myself  you're  rather  hard  hit,  old  man — 
I  wouldn't  give  a  whoop  about  the  chain  in  the 
gold  purse.  It's  just  one  of  the  little  coinci 
dences  that  hang  people  now  and  then.  And  as 
for  last  night — if  she's  the  kind  of  a  girl  you 
say  she  is,  and  you  think  she  had  anything  to  do 
with  that,  you — you're  addled,  that's  all.  You 
can  depend  on  it,  the  lady  of  the  empty  house 
last  week  is  the  lady  of  last  night.  And  yet  your 
train  acquaintance  was  in  Altoona  at  that  time." 

Just  before  we  got  off  the  car,  I  reverted  to 
the  subject  again.  It  was  never  far  back  in  my 
mind. 

"About  the — young  lady  of  the  train,  Rich," 
I  said,  with  what  I  suppose  was  elaborate  care 
lessness,  "I  don't  want  you  to  get  a  wrong  im 
pression.  I  am  rather  unlikely  to  see  her  again, 
but  even  if  I  do,  I — I  believe  she  is  already  'be 
spoke,'  or  next  thing  to  it." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  as  I  opened  the  door 


THE    CINEMATOGRAPH         161 

with  my  latch-key  he  stood  looking  up  at  me 
from  the  pavement  with  his  quizzical  smile. 

"Love  is  like  the  measles,"  he  orated.  "The 
1  older  you  get  it,  the  worse  the  attack." 

Johnson  did  not  appear  again  that  day.  A 
small  man  in  a  raincoat  took  his  place.  The  next 
morning  I  made  my  initial  trip  to  the  office,  the 
raincoat  still  on  hand.  I  had  a  short  conference 
with  Miller,  the  district  attorney,  at  eleven. 
Bronson  was  under  surveillance,  he  said,  and  any 
attempt  to  sell  the  notes  to  him  would  probably 
result  in  their  recovery.  In  the  meantime,  as  I 
knew,  the  Commonwealth  had  continued  the  case, 
in  hope  of  such  contingency. 

At  noon  I  left  the  office  and  took  a  veterinarian 
to  see  Candida,  the  injured  pony.  By  one  o'clock 
my  first  day's  duties  were  performed,  and  a  long 
Sahara  of  hot  afternoon  stretched  ahead.  Mc- 
Knight,  always  glad  to  escape  from  the  grind, 
^suggested  a  vaudeville,  and  in  sheer  ennui  I  con 
sented.  I  could  neither  ride,  drive  nor  golf,  and 
my  own  company  bored  me  to  distraction. 

"Coolest  place  in  town  these  days,"  he  de 
clared.  "Electric  fans,  breezy  songs,  airy  cos- 


168    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

tumes.     And  there's  Johnson  just  behind — the 
coldest  proposition  in  Washington." 

He  gravely  bought  three  tickets  and  presented 
the  detective  with  one.  Then  we  went  in.  Hav-if 
ing  lived  a  normal,  busy  life,  the  theater  in  the 
afternoon  is  to  me  about  on  a  par  with  ice-cream 
for  breakfast.  Up  on  the  stage  a  very  stout 
woman  in  short  pink  skirts,  with  a  smile  that 
McKnight  declared  looked  like  a  slash  in  a  roll 
of  butter,  was  singing  nasally,  with  a  laborious 
kick  at  the  end  of  each  verse.  Johnson,  two 
rows  ahead,  went  to  sleep.  McKnight  prodded 
me  with  his  elbow. 

"Look  at  the  first  box  to  the  right,"  he  said,  in 
a  stage  whisper.  "I  want  you  to  come  over  at  the 
end  of  this  act." 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  her  since  I  put 
her  in  the  cab  at  Baltimore.  Outwardly  I  pre 
sume  I  was  calm,  for  no  one  turned  to  stare  at 
me,  but  every  atom  of  me  cried  out  at  the  sight 
of  her.  She  was  leaning,  bent  forward,  lips 
slightly  parted,  gazing  raptly  at  the  Japanese 
conjurer  who  had  replaced  what  McKnight  dis 
respectfully  called  the  Columns  of  Hercule*. 


THE    CINEMATOGRAPH         163 

Compared  with  the  draggled  lady  of  the  farmr 
fcouse,  she  was  radiant. 

For  that  first  moment  there  was  nothing  but 
joy  at  the  sight  of  her.  McKnight's  touch  oa 
my  arm  brought  me  back  to  reality. 

"Come  over  and  meet  them,"  he  said.  "That's 
the  cousin  Miss  West  is  visiting,  Mrs.  Dallas." 

But  I  would  not  go.  After  he  went  I  sat  there 
alone,  painfully  conscious  that  I  was  being 
pointed  out  and  stared  at  from  the  box.  The 
abominable  Japanese  gave  way  to  yet  more  atro 
cious  performing  dogs. 

"How  many  offers  of  marriage  will  the  young 
lady  in  the  box  have  ?"  The  dog  stopped  sagely 
at  'none',  and  then  pulled  out  a  card  that  said 
eight.  Wild  shouts  of  glee  by  the  audience. 
"The  fools,"  I  muttered. 

After  a  little  I  glanced  over.  Mrs.  Dallas  was 
talking  to  McKnight,  but  She  was  looking 
straight  at  me.  She  was  flushed,  but  more  calm 
than  I,  and  she  did  not  bow.  I  fumbled  for  my 
hat,  but  the  next  moment  I  saw  that  they  were 
going,  and  I  sat  still.  When  McKnight  came 
Wck  he  was  triumphant. 


164    THE    MAN   IN    LOWER   TEN 

"I've  made  an  engagement  for  you,"  he  said. 
''Mrs.  Dallas  asked  me  to  bring  you  to  dinner 
to-night,  and  I  said  I  knew  you  would  fall  all 
over  yourself  to  go.  You  are  requested  to  bring 
along  the  broken  arm,  and  any  other  souvenirs 
of  the  wreck  that  you  may  possess." 

"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  I  declared,  strug 
gling  against  my  inclination.  "I  can't  even  tie 
my  necktie,  and  I  have  to  have  my  food  cut  for 
me." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  said  easily.  "I'll 
send  Stogie  over  to  fix  you  up,  and  Mrs.  Dal 
knows  all  about  the  arm.  I  told  her." 

(Stogie  is  his  Japanese  factotum,  so  called 
because  he  is  lean,  a  yellowish  brown  in  color, 
and  because  he  claims  to  have  been  shipped  into 
this  country  in  a  box. ) 

The  Cinematograph  was  finishing  the  pro 
gram.  The  house  was  dark  and  the  music  had 
stopped,  as  it  does  in  the  circus  just  before  some 
body  risks  his  neck  at  so  much  a  neck  in  the  Dip 
of  Death,  or  the  hundred-foot  dive.  Then,  witH 
a  sort  of  shock,  I  saw  on  the  white  curtain  the 
announcement : 


THE    CINEMATOGRAPH          165 

THE  NEXT  PICTURE 

IS  THE  DOOMED  WASHINGTON  FLIER,  TAKEN 
A  SHORT  DISTANCE  FROM  THE  SCENE  OF  THE 
WRECK  ON  THE  FATAL  MORNING  OF  SEP 
TEMBER  TENTH.  TWO  MILES  FARTHER  ON 
IT  MET  WITH  ALMOST  COMPLETE  ANNIHI 
LATION. 

I  confess  to  a  return  of  some  of  the  sickening 
sensations  of  the  wreck ;  people  around  me  were 
leaning  forward  with  tense  faces.  Then  the 
letters  were  gone,  and  I  saw  a  long  level  stretch 
of  track,  even  the  broken  stone  between  the  ties 
standing  out  distinctly.  Far  off  under  a  cloud 
of  smoke  a  small  object  was  rushing  toward  us 
and  growing  larger  as  it  came. 

Now  it  was  on  us,  a  mammoth  in  size,  with 
huge  drivers  and  a  colossal  tender.  The  engine 
leaped  aside,  as  if  just  in  time  to  save  us  from 
destruction,  with  a  glimpse  of  a  stooping  fireman 
and  a  grimy  engineer.  The  long  train  of  sleep 
ers  followed.  From  a  forward  vestibule  a  porter 
in  a  white  coat  waved  his  hand.  The  rest  of  the 
cars  seemed  still  wrapped  in  slumber.  Withi 


166    THE    MAN   IN    LOWER    TEN 

mixed  sensations  I  saw  my  own  car,  Ontario,  fly 
past,  and  then  I  rose  to  my  feet  and  gripped 
McKnight's  shoulder. 

On  the  lowest  step  of  the  last  car,  one  foot 
hanging  free,  was  a  man.  His  black  derby  hat 
was  pulled  well  down  to  keep  it  from  blowing 
away,  and  his  coat  was  flying  open  in  the  wind. 
He  was  swung  well  out  from  the  car,  his  free 
hand  gripping  a  small  valise,  every  muscle  tense 
for  a  jump. 

"Good  God,  that's  my  man !"  I  said  hoarsely, 
as  the  audience  broke  into  applause.  McKnight 
half  rose:  in  his  seat  ahead  Johnson  stifled  a 
yawn  and  turned  to  eye  me. 

I  dropped  into  my  chair  limply,  and  tried  to 
control  my  excitement.  "The  man  on  the  last 
platform  of  the  train,"  I  said.  "He  was  just 
about  to  leap ;  I'll  swear  that  was  my  bag." 

"Could  you  see  his  face?"  McKnight  asked  in 
an  undertone.  "Would  you  know  him  again  ?" 

"No.  His  hat  was  pulled  down  and  his  head 
was  bent.  I'm  going  back  to  find  out  where  that 
picture  was  taken.  They  say  two  miles,  but  if? 
may  have  been  forty." 


THE    CINEMATOGRAPH         16T 

The  audience,  busy  with  its  wraps,  had  not 
noticed.    Mrs.  Dallas  and  Alison  West  had  gone. 
In  front  of  us  Johnson  had  dropped  his  hat  and 
•  was  stooping  for  it. 

"This  way,"  I  motioned  to  McKnight,  and  we 
wheeled  into  the  narrow  passage  beside  us,  back 
of  the  boxes.  At  the  end  there  was  a  door  lead 
ing  into  the  wings,  and  as  we  went  boldly 
through  I  turned  the  key. 

The  final  set  was  being  struck,  and  no  one 
paid  any  attention  to  us.  Luckily  they  were 
similarly  indifferent  to  a  banging  at  the  door  I 
had  locked,  a  banging  which,  I  judged,  signified 
Johnson. 

"I  guess  we've  broken  up  his  interference," 
McKnight  chuckled. 

Stage  hands  were  hurrying  in  every  direction; 
pieces  of  the  side  wall  of  the  last  drawing-room 
menaced  us ;  a  switchboard  behind  us  was  singing 
like  a  tea-kettle.  Everywhere  we  stepped  we 
were  in  somebody's  way.  At  last  we  were  across, 
confronting  a  man  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  who  by 
dots  and  dashes  of  profanity  seemed  to  be  direct 
ing  the  chaos. 


168    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

"Well  ?"  he  said,  wheeling  on  us.  ''What  can 
I  do  for  you?" 

"I  would  like  to  ask,"  I  replied,  "if  you  have 
any  idea  just  where  the  last  cinematograph  pic-| 
ture  was  taken." 

"Broken  board — picnickers — lake  ?" 

"No.    The  Washington  Flier." 

He  glanced  at  my  bandaged  arm. 

"The  announcement  says  two  miles,"  Mc- 
Knight  put  in,  "but  we  should  like  to  know 
whether  it  is  railroad  miles,  automobile  miles,  or 
policeman  miles." 

"I  am  sorry  I  can't  tell  you,"  he  replied,  more 
civilly.  "We  get  those  pictures  by  contract. 
We  don't  take  them  ourselves." 

"Where  are  the  company's  offices  ?" 

"New  York."  He  stepped  forward  and 
grasped  a  super  by  the  shoulder.  "What  in 
blazes  are  you  doing  with  that  gold  chair  in  a 
kitchen  set?  Take  that  piece  of  pink  plush  there 
and  throw  it  over  a  soap  box,  if  you  haven't  got 
a  kitchen  chair." 

I  had  not  realized  the  extent  of  the  shock,  but 
now  I  dropped  into  a  chair  and  wiped  my  fore- 


THE    CINEMATOGRAPH          169 

head.  The  unexpected  glimpse  of  Alison  West, 
followed  almost  immediately  by  the  revelation  of 
the  picture,  had  left  me  limp  and  unnerved.  Mc- 
Knight  was  looking  at  his  watch. 

"He  says  the  moving  picture  people  have  an 
office  down-town.  We  can  make  it  if  we  go  now." 

So  he  called  a  cab,  and  we  started  at  a  gallop. 
There  was  no  sign  of  the  detective.  "Upon  my 
word,"  Richey  said,  "I  feel  lonely  without  him." 

The  people  at  the  down-town  office  of  the  cine 
matograph  company  were  very  obliging.  The 

picture  had  been  taken,  they  said,  at  M , 

just  two  miles  beyond  the  scene  of  the  wreck.  It 
was  not  much,  but  it  was  something  to  work  on. 
I  decided  not  to  go  home,  but  to  send  McKnight's 
Jap  for  my  clothes,  and  to  dress  at  the  Incu 
bator.  I  was  determined,  if  possible,  to  make 
my  next  day's  investigations  without  Johnson. 
In  the  meantime,  even  if  it  was  for  the  last  time, 
I  would  see  Her  that  night.  I  gave  Stogie  a 
note  for  Mrs.  Klopton,  and  with  my  dinner 
clothes  there  came  back  the  gold  bag,  wrapped 
in  tissue  paper. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

THE   SHADOW    OF    A    GIUI. 

CERTAIN  things  about  the  dinner  at  the 
Dallas  house  will  always  be  obscure  to  me. 
Dallas  was  something  in  the  Fish  Commission, 
and  I  remember  his  reeling  off  fish  eggs  in  bil 
lions  while  we  ate  our  caviar.  He  had  some 
particular  stunt  he  had  been  urging  the  govern 
ment  to  for  years — something  about  forbidding 
the  establishment  of  mills  and  factories  on  river- 
banks — it  seems  they  kill  the  fish,  either  the 
smoke,  or  the  noise,  or  something  they  pour  into 
the  water. 

Mrs.  Dallas  was  there,  I  think.  Of  course,  I 
suppose  she  must  have  been;  and  there  was  a 
.woman  in  yellow:  I  took  her  in  to  dinner,  and  I 
remember  she  loosened  my  clams  for  me  so  I 
could  get  them.  But  the  only  real  person  at  the 
table  was  a  girl  across  in  white,  a  sublimated 
young  woman  who  was  as  brilliant  as  I  was 
170 


THB   SHADOW   OP   A   GIRL     17J 

stupid,  who  never  by  any  chance  looked  directly 
at  me,  and  who  appeared  and  disappeared  across 
the  candles  and  orchids  in  a  sort  of  halo  of 
radiance. 

When  the  dinner  had  progressed  from  salmon 
to  roast,  and  the  conversation  had  done  the  same 
thing — from  fish  to  scandal — the  yellow  gown 
turned  to  me. 

"We  have  been  awfully  good,  haven't  we,  Mr. 
Blakeley  ?"  she  asked.  "Although  I  am  crazy  to 
hear,  I  have  not  said  'wreck'  once.  I'm  sure  you 
must  feel  like  the  survivor  of  Waterloo,  or  some 
thing  of  the  sort." 

"If  you  want  me  to  tell  you  about  the  wreck," 
I  said,  glancing  across  the  table,  "I'm  sorry  to 
be  disappointing,  but  I  don't  remember  any 
thing." 

"You  are  fortunate  to  be  able  to  forget  it.*' 
It  was  the  first  word  Miss  West  had  spoken  di 
rectly  to  me,  and  it  went  to  my  head. 

"There  are  some  things  I  have  not  forgotten," 
I  said,  over  the  candles.  "I  recall  coming  to 
myself  some  time  after,  and  that  a  girl,  a  beau 
tiful  girl—" 


178    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

"Ah !"  said  the  lady  in  yellow,  leaning  forward 
breathlessly.  Miss  West  was  staring  at  me 
coldly,  but,  once  started,  I  had  to  stumble  on. 

"That  a  girl  was  trying  to  rouse  me,  and  that 
she  told  me  I  had  been  on  fire  twice  already."  A 
shudder  went  around  the  table. 

"But  surely  that  isn't  the  end  of  the  story,'* 
Mrs.  Dallas  put  in  aggrievedly.  "Why,  that's 
the  most  tantalizing  thing  I  ever  heard." 

"I'm  afraid  that's  all,"  I  said.  "She  went  her 
way  and  I  went  mine.  If  she  recalls  me  at  all, 
she  probably  thinks  of  me  as  a  weak-kneed  indi 
vidual  who  faints  like  a  woman  when  everything 
is  over." 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  Mrs.  Dallas  asserted 
triumphantly.  "He  fainted,  did  you  hear? 
when  everything  was  over !  He  hasn't  begun  to 
tell  it." 

I  would  have  given  a  lot  by  that  time  if  I  had 
.not  mentioned  the  girl.  But  McKnight  took  it 
up  there  and  carried  it  on. 

"Blakeley  is  a  regular  geyser,"  he  said.  "He 
never  spouts  until  he  reaches  the  boiling  point. 
!A.nd  by  that  same  token,  although  he  hasn't  said 


THE    SHADOW    OF    A   GIRL     173 

much  about  the  Lady  of  the  Wreck,  I  think  he  is 
ciazy  about  her.  In  fact,  I  am  sure  of  it.  He 
thinks  he  has  locked  his  secret  in  the  caves  of  his 
soul,  but  I  call  you  to  witness  that  he  has  it 
nailed  to  his  face.  Look  at  him !" 

I  squirmed  miserably  and  tried  to  avoid  the 
startled  eyes  of  the  girl  across  the  table.  I 
wanted  to  choke  McKnight  and  murder  the  rest 
of  the  party. 

"It  isn't  fair,"  I  said  as  coolly  as  I  could.  "I 
have  my  fingers  crossed;  you  are  five  against 
one." 

"And  to  think  that  there  was  a  murder  on  that 
very  train,"  broke  in  the  lady  in  yellow.  "It 
was  a  perfect  crescendo  of  horrors,  wasn't  it? 
And  what  became  of  the  murdered  man,  Mr. 
Blakeley?" 

McKnight  had  the  sense  to  jump  into  the  con 
versation  and  save  my  reply. 

"They  say  good  Pittsburgers  go  to  Atlantic' 
City  when  they  die,"  he  said.   "So — we  are  rea 
sonably  certain  the  gentleman  did  not  go  to  the 
seashore." 

The  meal  was  over  at  last,  and  once  in  the 


drawing-room  it  was  clear  we  hung  heavy  on  the 
hostess'  hands.  "It  is  so  hard  to  get  people  for 
bridge  in  September,"  she  wailed.  "There  is 
ubsolutely  nobody  in  town.  Six  is  a  dreadful 
number." 

"It's  a  good  poker  number,"  her  husband  sug 
gested. 

The  matter  settled  itself,  however.  I  was  hope 
less,  save  as  a  dummy ;  Miss  West  said  it  was  too 
hot  for  cards,  and  went  out  on  a  balcony  that 
overlooked  the  Mall.  With  obvious  relief  Mrs. 
Dallas  had  the  card-table  brought,  and — I  was 
face  to  face  with  the  minute  I  had  dreaded  and 
hoped  for  for  a  week. 

Now  it  had  come,  it  was  more  difficult  than  I 
had  anticipated.  I  do  not  know  if  there  was  a 
moon,  but  there  was  the  urban  substitute  for  it — 
the  arc  light.  It  threw  the  shadow  of  the  bal 
cony  railing  in  long  black  bars  against  her  white 
gown,  and  as  it  swung  sometimes  her  face  was  in 
the  light.  I  drew  a  chair  close  so  that  I  could 
watch  her. 

"Do  you  know,"  I  said,  when  she  made  no 
•ffort  at  speech,  "that  you  are  a  much  more 


THE    SHADOW   OF    A   GIRL     ITS 

formidable  person  to-night,  in  that  gown,  than 
you  were  the  last  time  I  saw  you?" 

The  light  swung  on  her  face ;  she  was  smiling 
faintly. 

"The  hat  with  the  green  ribbons!"  she  said. 
*1  must  take  it  back ;  I  had  almost  forgotten." 

"I  have  not  forgotten — anything."  I  pulled 
myself  up  short.  This  was  hardly  loyalty  to 
Richey.  His  voice  came  through  the  window- 
just  then,  and  perhaps  I  was  wrong,  but  I 
thought  she  raised  her  head  to  listen. 

"Look  at  this  hand,"  he  was  saying.  "Regu 
lar  pianola :  you  could  play  it  with  your  feet." 

"He's  a  dear,  isn't  he?"  Alison  said  unex 
pectedly.  "No  matter  how  depressed  and  down 
hearted  I  am,  I  always  cheer  up  when  I  see 
Richey." 

"He's  more  than  that,"  I  returned  warmly. 
RHe  is  the  most  honorable  fellow  I  know.  If  he 
wasn't  so  much  that  way,  he  would  have  a  career 
before  him.  He  wanted  to  put  on  the  doors  of 
our  offices,  Blakeley  and  McKnight,  P.  B.  H., 
which  is  Poor  But  Honest." 

From  my  comparative  poverty  to  the  wealtK 


176    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

of  the  girl  beside  me  was  a  single  mental  leap. 
From  that  wealth  to  the  grandfather  who  was 
.responsible  for  it  was  another. 

"I  wonder  if  you  know  that  I  had  been  to 
Pittsburg  to  see  your  grandfather  when  I  met 
you  ?"  I  said. 

"You !"    She  was  surprised. 

"Yes.  And  you  remember  the  alligator  bag 
that  I  told  you  was  exchanged  for  the  one  you 
cut  off  my  arm?"  She  nodded  expectantly. 
"Well,  in  that  valise  were  the  forged  Andy  Bron- 
son  notes,  and  Mr.  Gilmore's  deposition  that 
they  were  forged." 

She  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant.  "In  that 
bag!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  me 
that  before?  Oh,  it's  so  ridiculous,  so — so  hope 
less.  Why,  I  could — " 

She  stopped  suddenly  and  sat  down  again.  "I 
do  not  know  that  I  am  sorry,  after  all,"  she  said 
after  a  pause.  "Mr.  Bronson  was  a  friend  of 
my  father's.  I — I  suppose  it  was  a  bad  thing 
for  you,  losing  the  papers  ?" 

"Well,  it  was  not  a  good  thing,"  I  conceded. 
''While  we  are  on  the  subject  of  losing  tilings,  do 


THE    SHADOW   OF   A   GIRL     177 

you  remember — do  you  know  that  I  still  have 
your  gold  purse?" 

She  did  not  reply  at  once.  The  shadow  of  a 
column  was  over  her  face,  but  I  guessed  that  she 
was  staring  at  me. 

"You  have  it !"  She  almost  whispered. 

"I  picked  it  up  in  the  street  car,"  I  said,  with 
a  cheerfulness  I  did  not  feel.  "It  looks  like  a 
very  opulent  little  purse." 

Why  didn't  she  speak  about  the  necklace? 
For  just  a  careless  word  to  make  me  sane  again! 

"You!"  she  repeated,  horror-stricken.  And 
then  I  produced  the  purse  and  held  it  out  on  my 
palm. 

"I  should  have  sent  it  to  you  before,  I  sup 
pose,  but,  as  you  know,  I  have  been  laid  up  since 
the  wreck." 

We  both  saw  McKnight  at  the  same  moment. 
He  had  pulled  the  curtains  aside  and  was  stand 
ing  looking  out  at  us.  The  tableau  of  give  and 
take  was  unmistakable;  the  gold  purse,  her 
outstretched  hand,  my  own  attitude.  It  was  over 
in  a  second ;  then  he  came  out  and  lounged  on  the 
balcony  railing. 


178    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER    TEN 

"They're  mad  at  me  in  there,"  he  said  airily, 
"so  I  came  out.  I  suppose  the  reason  they  call 
it  bridge  is  because  so  many  people  get  cross 
over  it." 

The  heat  broke  up  the  card  group  soon  after, 
and  they  all  came  out  for  the  night  breeze.  I 
had  no  more  words  alone  with  Alison. 

I  went  back  to  the  Incubator  for  the  night. 
We  said  almost  nothing  on  the  way  home ;  there 
was  a  constraint  between  us  for  the  first  time 
that  I  could  remember.  It  was  too  early  for  bed, 
and  so  we  smoked  in  the  living-room  and  tried 
to  talk  of  trivial  things.  After  a  time  even  those 
failed,  and  we  sat  silent.  It  was  McKnight  who 
finally  broached  the  subject. 

"And  so  she  wasn't  at  Seal  Harbor  at  all." 

"No." 

"Do  you  know  where  she  was,  Lollie?" 

"Somewhere  near  Cresson." 

"And  that  was  the  purse — her  purse — witli 
the  broken  necklace  in  it  ?" 

"Yes,  it  was.  You  understand,  don't  you, 
Rich,  that,  having  given  her  my  word,  I  couldn't 
tell  you?" 


THE    SHADOW   OF   A   GIRL     1Y9 

"I  understand  a  lot  of  things,"  he  said,  with 
out  bitterness. 

We  sat  for  some  time  and  smoked.  Then 
Richey  got  up  and  stretched  himself.  "I'm  off 
to  bed,  old  man,"  he  said.  "Need  any  help  with 
that  game  arm  of  yours  ?" 

"No,  thanks,"  I  returned. 

I  heard  him  go  into  his  room  and  lock  the 
door.  It  was  a  bad  hour  for  me.  The  first 
•hadow  between  us,  and  the  shadow  of  a  girl  «S 
flu* 


CHAPTER   XVH 

AT  THE  FARM-HOUSE  AGAIN 

MC  KNIGHT  is  always  a  sympathizer  with 
the  early  worm.  It  was  late  when  he  ap 
peared.  Perhaps,  like  myself,  he  had  not  slept 
well.  But  he  was  apparently  cheerful  enough, 
and  he  made  a  better  breakfast  than  I  did.  It 
was  one  o'clock  before  we  got  to  Baltimore. 
After  a  half  hour's  wait  we  took  a  local  for 
M ,  the  station  near  which  the  cinemato 
graph  picture  had  been  taken. 

We  passed  the  scene  of  the  wreck,  McKnight 
with  curiosity,  I  with  a  sickening  sense  of  horror. 
Back  in  the  fields  was  the  little  farm-house  where 
Alison  West  and  I  had  intended  getting  coffee, 
and  winding  away  from  the  track,  maple  trees 
shading  it  on  each  side,  was  the  lane  where  we 
had  stopped  to  rest,  and  where  I  had — it  seemed 
presumption  beyond  belief  now — where  I  had 
tried  to  comfort  her  by  patting  her  hand. 
180 


AT    THE   FARM-HOUSE    AGAIN    181 

We  got  out  at  M ,  a  small  place  with  two 

or  i-hree  houses  and  a  general  store.  The  station 
was  a  one-roomed  affair,  with  a  railed-off  place 
at  the  end,  where  a  scale,  a  telegraph  instrument 
and  a  chair  constituted  the  entire  furnishing. 

The  station  agent  was  a  young  man  with  a 
shrewd  face.  He  stopped  hammering  a  piece  of 
wood  over  a  hole  in  the  floor  to  ask  where  we 
wanted  to  go. 

"We're  not  going,"  said  McKnight,  "we're 
coming.  Have  a  cigar  ?" 

The  agent  took  it  with  an  inquiring  glance, 
first  at  it  and  then  at  us. 

"We  want  to  ask  you  a  few  questions,"  began 
McKnight,  perching  himself  on  the  railing  and 
kicking  the  chair  forward  for  me.  "Or,  rather, 
this  gentleman  does." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  the  agent,  glancing 
through  the  window.  "There's  a  hen  in  that 
crate  choking  herself  to  death." 

He  was  back  in  a  minute,  and  took  up  his  po 
sition  near  a  sawdust-filled  box  that  did  duty  as 
a  cuspidor. 

"Now  fire  away,"  he  said. 


182    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

"In  the  first  place,"  I  began,  "do  you  remem 
ber  the  day  the  Washington  Flier  was  wrecked 
below  here  ?" 

"Do  I!"  he  said.  "Did  Jonah  remember  the 
whale?" 

"Were  you  on  the  platform  here  when  the  first 
section  passed?" 

"I  was." 

"Do  you  recall  seeing  a  man  hanging  to  the 
platform  of  the  last  car?" 

"There  was  no  one  hanging  there  when  she 
passed  here,"  he  said  with  conviction.  "I 
watched  her  out  of  sight." 

"Did  you  see  anything  that  morning  of  a  man 
about  my  size,  carrying  a  small  grip,  and  wear 
ing  dark  clothes  and  a  derby  hat?"  I  asked 
eagerly. 

McKnight  was  trying  to  look  unconcerned, 
but  I  was  frankly  anxious.  It  was  clear  that  the 
man  had  jumped  somewhere  in  the  mile  of  track 
just  beyond. 

"Well,  yes,  I  did."  The  agent  cleared  hii 
throat.  "When  the  smash  came  the  operator  at 
MX  sent  word  along  the  wire,  both  ways.  I  got 


AT   THE    FARM-HOUSE    AGAIN    188 

it  here,  and  I  was  pretty  near  crazy,  though  I 
knew  it  wasn't  any  fault  of  mine. 

"I  was  standing  on  the  track  looking  down, 
for  I  couldn't  leave  the  office,  when  a  young  fel 
low  with  light  hair  limped  up  to  me  and  asked  ma 
what  that  smoke  was  over  there. 

"'That's  what's  left  of  the  WashingtoH 
Flier,'  I  said,  'and  I  guess  there's  souls  going  up 
in  tliat  smoke.' 

"  'Do  you  mean  the  first  section?'  he  said,  getr 
ting  kind  of  greenish-yellow. 

"  'That's  what  I  mean,'  I  said ;  'split  to  kin 
dling  wood  because  Rafferty,  on  the  second  sec* 
tion,  didn't  want  to  be  late.' 

"He  put  his  hand  out  in  front  of  him,  and  the 
satchel  fell  with  a  bang. 

"  'My  God !'  he  said,  and  dropped  right  on  the 
track  in  a  heap. 

"I  got  him  into  the  station  and  he  came 
around,  but  he  kept  on  groaning  something 
awful.  He'd  sprained  his  ankle,  and  when  he  got 
a  little  better  I  drove  him  over  in  Carter's  milk 
wagon  to  the  Carter  place,  and  I  reckon  be 
stayed  there  a  spell." 


"That's  all,  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"That's  all — or,  no,  there's  something  else. 
About  noon  that  day  one  of  the  Carter  twins 
came  down  with  a  note  from  him  asking  me  to 
send  a  long-distance  message  to  some  one  in 
Washington." 

"To  whom?"  I  asked  eagerly. 

"I  reckon  I've  forgot  the  name,  but  the  mes 
sage  was  that  this  fellow — Sullivan  was  his 
name — was  at  M ,  and  if  the  man  had  es 
caped  from  the  wreck  would  he  come  to  see  him." 

"He  wouldn't  have  sent  that  message  to  me," 
I  said  to  McKnight,  rather  crestfallen.  "He'd 
have  every  object  in  keeping  out  of  my  way." 

"There  might  be  reasons,"  McKnight  ob 
served  judicially.  "He  might  not  have  found 
the  papers  then." 

"Was  the  name  Blakeley  ?"  I  asked. 

"It  might  have  been — I  can't  say.  But  the 
man  wasn't  there,  and  there  was  a  lot  of  noise. 
I  couldn't  hear  well.  Then  in  half  an  hour  down 
came  the  other  twin  to  say  the  gentleman  was 
taking  on  awful  and  didn't  want  the  message 
sent." 


AT   THE   FARM-HOUSE    AGAIN    185 

"He's  gone,  of  course?" 

"Yes.  Limped  down  here  in  about  three  days 
and  took  the  noon  train  for  the  city." 

It  seemed  a  certainty  now  that  our  man,  hav 
ing  hurt  himself  somewhat  in  his  jump,  had 
stayed  quietly  in  the  farm-house  until  he  was 
able  to  travel.  But,  to  be  positive,  we  decided  to 
visit  the  Carter  place. 

I  gave  the  station  agent  a  five-dollar  bill, 
which  he  rolled  up  with  a  couple  of  others  and 
stuck  in  his  pocket.  I  turned  as  we  got  to  a 
bend  in  the  road,  and  he  was  looking  curiously 
after  us. 

It  was  not  until  we  had  climbed  the  hill  and 
turned  onto  the  road  to  the  Carter  place  that  I 
realized  where  we  were  going.  Although  we  ap 
proached  it  from  another  direction,  I  knew  the 
farm-house  at  once.  It  was  the  one  where  Alison 
West  and  I  had  breakfasted  nine  days  before. 
With  the  new  restraint  between  us,  I  did  not  tell 
McKnight.  I  wondered  afterward  if  he  had 
suspected  it.  I  saw  him  looking  hard  at  the 
gate-post  which  had  figured  in  one  of  our  mys 
teries,  but  he  asked  no  questions.  Afterward 


186    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

he  grew  almost  taciturn,  for  him,  and  let  me  do 
most  of  the  talking. 

We  opened  the  front  gate  of  the  Carter  place 
and  went  slowly  up  the  walk.  Two  ragged 
youngsters,  alike  even  to  freckles  and  squints, 
were  playing  in  the  yard. 

"Is  your  mother  around?"  I  asked. 

"In  the  front  room.  Walk  in,"  they  answered 
in  identical  tones. 

As  we  got  to  the  porch  we  heard  voices,  and 
stopped.  I  knocked,  but  the  people  within,  en 
gaged  in  animated,  rather  one-sided  conversa 
tion,  did  not  answer. 

"  'In  the  front  room.  Walk  in,'  "  quoted  Mc- 
Knight,  and  did  so. 

In  the  stuffy  farm  parlor  two  people  were 
sitting.  One,  a  pleasant-faced  woman  with  a 
checked  apron,  rose,  somewhat  embarrassed,  to 
meet  us.  She  did  not  know  me,  and  I  was  thank 
ful.  But  our  attention  was  riveted  on  a  little 
man  who  was  sitting  before  a  table,  writing 
busily.  It  was  Hotchkiss : 

He  got  up  when  he  saw  us,  and  had  the  grace 
to  look  uncomfortable. 


AT   THE    FARM-HOUSE    AGAIN    187 

"Such  an  interesting  case,"  he  said  nervously, 
"I  took  the  liberty—" 

"Look  here,"  said  McKnight  suddenly,  "did 
you  make  any  inquiries  at  the  station?" 

"A  few,"  he  confessed.  "  I  went  to  the  the 
ater  last  night — I  felt  the  need  of  a  little  relaxa 
tion — and  the  sight  of  a  picture  there,  a  cine 
matograph  affair,  started  a  new  line  of  thought. 
Probably  the  same  clue  brought  you  gentlemen. 
I  learned  a  good  bit  from  the  station  agent." 

"The  son-of-a-gun,"  said  McKnight.  "And 
you  paid  him,  I  suppose?" 

"I  gave  him  five  dollars,"  was  the  apologeti* 
answer. 

Mrs.  Carter,  hearing  sounds  of  strife  in  the 
yard,  went  out,  and  Hotchkiss  folded  up  his 
papers. 

"I  think  the  identity  of  the  man  is  estab 
lished,"  he  said.  "What  number  of  hat  do  you 
•wear,  Mr.  Blakeley?" 

"Seven  and  a  quarter,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  it's  only  piling  up  evidence,"  he  said 
cheerfully.  "On  the  night  of  the  murder  you 
wore  light  gray  silk  underclothing,  with  the 


188    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

second  button  of  the  shirt  missing.  Your  hat 
had  *L.  B.'  in  gilt  letters  inside,  and  there  was 
a  very  minute  hole  in  the  toe  of  one  black  sock." 

"Hush,"  McKnight  protested.  "If  word  gets 
to  Mrs.  Klopton  that  Mr.  Blakeley  was  wrecked, 
or  robbed,  or  whatever  it  was,  with  a  button 
missing  and  a  hole  in  one  sock,  she'll  retire  to 
the  Old  Ladies'  Home.  I've  heard  her  threaten 
it." 

Mr.  Hotchkiss  was  without  a  sense  of  humor. 
He  regarded  McKnight  gravely  and  went  on : 

"I've  been  up  in  the  room  where  the  man  laj 
while  he  was  unable  to  get  away,  and  there  is 
nothing  there.  But  I  found  what  may  be  a  pos 
sible  clue  in  the  dust  heap. 

"Mrs.  Carter  tells  me  that  in  unpacking  his 
grip  the  other  day  she  shook  out  of  the  coat  of 
the  pajamas  some  pieces  of  a  telegram.  As  I 
figure  it,  the  pajamas  were  his  own.  He  prob 
ably  had  them  on  when  he  effected  the  ex 
change." 

I  nodded  assent.  All  I  had  retained  of  my 
own  clothing  was  the  suit  of  pajamas  I  was 
wearing  and  my  bath-robe. 


AT   THE   FARM-HOUSE   AGAIN    189 

"Therefore  the  telegram  was  his,  not  yours. 
I  have  pieces  here,  but  some  are  missing.  I  am 
not  discouraged,  however." 

He  spread  out  some  bits  of  yellow  paper,  and 
we  bent  over  them,  curiously.  It  was  something 
like  this : 

Man  with  p —    Get — 
Br— 

We  spelled  it  out  slowly. 

"Now,"  Hotchkiss  announced,  "I  make  it 
something  like  this :  The  'p — '  is  one  of  two 
things,  pistol — you  remember  the  little  pearl- 
handled  affair  belonging  to  the  murdered  man — 
or  it  is  pocket-book.  I  am  inclined  to  the  latter 
view,  as  the  pocket-book  had  been  disturbed  and 
the  pistol  had  not." 

I  took  the  piece  of  paper  from  the  table  and 
scrawled  four  words  on  it. 

"Now,"  I  said,  rearranging  them,  "it  hap-, 
pens,  Mr.  Hotchkiss,  that  I  found  one  of  these 
pieces  of  the  telegram  on  the  train.     I  thought 
it  had  been  dropped  by  some  one  else,  you  see, 
but  that's  immaterial.     Arranged  this  way  it 


T90    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

almost  makes  sense.  Fill  out  that  *p — '  with 
the  rest  of  the  word,  as  I  imagine  it,  and  it 
makes  'papers,'  and  add  this  scrap  and  you 
have: 

"  'Man  with  papers  (in)  lower  ten,  car  seven. 
Get  (them).'" 

McKnight  slapped  Hotchkiss  on  the  back. 

"You're  a  trump,"  he  said.  "Br —  is  Bron- 
son,  of  course.  It's  almost  too  easy.  You  see, 
Mr.  Blakeley  here  engaged  lower  ten,  but  found 
it  occupied  by  the  man  who  was  later  murdered 
there.  The  man  who  did  the  thing  was  a  friend 
of  Bronson's,  evidently,  and  in  trying  to  get  the 
papers  we  have  the  motive  for  the  crime." 

"There  are  still  some  things  to  be  explained." 
Mr.  Hotchkiss  wiped  his  glasses  and  put  them 
on.  "For  one  thing,  Mr.  Blakeley,  I  am  puz 
zled  by  that  bit  of  chain." 

I  did  not  glance  at  McKnight.  I  felt  that  the 
hands  with  which  I  was  gathering  up  the  bits  of 
torn  paper  were  shaking.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
this  astute  little  man  was  going  to  drag  in  the 
girl  in  spite  of  me. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

A  NEW  WORLD 

Y  T  OTCHKISS  jotted  down  the  bits  of  tele- 
JL  A    gram  and  rose. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "we've  done  something. 
We've  found  where  the  murderer  left  the  train, 
we  know  what  day  he  went  to  Baltimore,  and, 
most  important  of  all,  we  have  a  motive  for  the 
crime." 

"It  seems  the  irony  of  fate,"  said  McKnight, 
getting  up,  "that  a  man  should  kill  another 
man  for  certain  papers  he  is  supposed  to  be  car 
rying,  find  he  hasn't  got  them  after  all,  decide 
to  throw  suspicion  on  another  man  by  changing 
berths  and  getting  out,  bag  and  baggage,  and 
then,  by  the  merest  fluke  of  chance,  take  with 
him,  in  the  valise  he  changed  for  his  own,  the 
very  notes  he  was  after.  It  was  a  bit  of  luck 
for  him." 

"Then  why,"  put  in  Hotchkiss   doubtfully, 
191 


192    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

"why  did  he  collapse  when  he  heard  of  the 
wreck?  And  what  about  the  telephone  message 
the  station  agent  sent?  You  remember  thej 
Hried  to  countermand  it,  and  with  some  excite 
ment." 

"We  will  ask  him  those  questions  when  we  get 
him,"  McKnight  said.  We  were  on  the  unrailed 
front  porch  by  that  time,  and  Hotchkiss  had  put 
away  his  note-book.  The  mother  of  the  twint 
followed  us  to  the  steps. 

"Dear  me,"  she  exlaimed  volubly,  "and  to 
think  I  was  forgetting  to  tell  you!  I  put  the 
young  man  to  bed  with  a  spice  poultice  on  his 
ankle:  my  mother  always  was  a  firm  believer  in 
spice  poultices.  It's  wonderful  what  they  will  do 
in  croup !  And  then  I  took  the  children  and  went 
down  to  see  the  wreck.  It  was  Sunday,  and  the 
mister  had  gone  to  church ;  hasn't  missed  a  day 
since  he  took  the  pledge  nine  years  ago.  And 
,  on  the  way  I  met  two  people,  a  man  and  a 
woman.  They  looked  half  dead,  so  I  sent  them 
right  here  for  breakfast  and  some  soap  and  wa 
ter.  I  always  say  soap  is  better  than  liquor 
after  a  shock." 


A   NEW   WORLD  193 

Hotchkiss  was  listening  absently:  McKnight 
iras  whistling  under  his  breath,  staring  down 
across  the  field  to  where  a  break  in  the  woods 
showed  a  half  dozen  telegraph  poles,  the  line  of 
the  railroad. 

"It  must  have  been  twelve  o'clock  when  we 
got  back;  I  wanted  the  children  to  see  every 
thing,  because  it  isn't  likely  they'll  ever  see  an 
other  wreck  like  that.  Rows  of — " 

"About  twelve  o'clock,"  I  broke  in,  "and  what 
then?" 

"The  young  man  up-stairs  was  awake,"  she 
went  on,  "and  hammering  at  his  door  like  all 
possessed.  And  it  was  locked  on  the  outside!" 
She  paused  to  enjoy  her  sensation. 

"I  would  like  to  see  that  lock,"  Hotchkiss 
said  promptly,  but  for  some  reason  the  woman 
demurred.  "I  will  bring  the  key  down,"  she 
said  and  disappeared.  When  she  returned  she 
held  out  an  ordinary  door  key  of  the  cheapest 
variety. 

"We  had  to  break  the  lock,"  she  volunteered, 
"and  the  key  didn't  turn  up  for  two  days.  Then 
one  of  the  twins  found  the  turkey  gobbler  try- 


194    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

ing  to  swallow  it.  It  has  been  washed  since,'* 
she  hastened  to  assure  Hotchkiss,  who  showed 
an  inclination  to  drop  it. 

"You  don't  think  he  locked  the  door  himself 
and  threw  the  key  out  of  the  window?"  the  little 
man  asked. 

"The  windows  are  covered  with  mosquito  net 
ting,  nailed  on.  The  mister  blamed  it  on  the 
children,  and  it  might  have  been  Obadiah.  He's 
the  quiet  kind,  and  you  never  know  what  he's 
about." 

"He's  about  to  strangle,  isn't  he,"  McKnight 
remarked  lazily,  "or  is  that  Obadiah?" 

Mrs.  Carter  picked  the  boy  up  and  inverted 
him,  talking  amiably  all  the  time.  "He's  always 
doing  it,"  she  said,  giving  him  a  shake.  "When 
ever  we  miss  anything  we  look  to  see  if  Oba- 
diah's  black  in  the  face."  She  gave  another 
shake,  and  the  quarter  I  had  given  him  shot  out 
as  if  blown  from  a  gun.  Then  we  prepared  to 
go  back  to  the  station. 

From  where  I  stood  I  could  look  into  the 
cheery  farm  kitchen,  where  Alison  West  and  I 
had  eaten  our  al  fresco  breakfast.  I  looked  at 


A   NEW   WORLD  195 

the  table  with  mixed  emotions,  and  then,  gradu 
ally,  the  meaning  of  something  on  it  penetrated 
my  mind.  Still  in  its  papers,  evidently  just 
opened,  was  a  hat  box,  and  protruding  over  the 
edge  of  the  box  was  a  streamer  of  vivid  green 
ribbon. 

On  the  plea  that  I  wished  to  ask  Mrs.  Carter 
a  few  more  questions.  I  let  the  others  go  on.  I 
watched  them  down  the  flagstone  walk ;  saw  Mc- 
Knight  stop  and  examine  the  gate-posts  and 
saw,  too,  the  quick  glance  he  threw  back  at  the 
house.  Then  I  turned  to  Mrs.  Carter. 

"I  would  like  to  speak  to  the  young  lady  up 
stairs,"  I  said. 

She  threw  up  her  hands  with  a  quick  gesture 
of  surrender.  "I've  done  all  I  could,"  she  ex 
claimed.  "She  won't  like  it  very  well,  but — she's 
in  the  room  over  the  parlor." 

I  went  eagerly  up  the  ladder-like  stairs,  to 
ithe  rag-carpeted  hall.  Two  doors  were  open, 
showing  interiors  of  four  poster  beds  and  high 
bureaus.  The  door  of  the  room  over  the  parlor 
was  almost  closed.  I  hesitated  in  the  hallway: 
after  all,  what  right  had  I  to  intrude  on  her? 


196    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

But  she  settled  my  difficulty  by  throwing  open 
the  door  and  facing  me. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  West,"  I  stam 
mered.  "It  has  just  occurred  to  me  that  I  am 
unpardonably  rude.  I  saw  the  hat  down-stairs 
and  I — I  guessed — " 

"The  hat !"  she  said.  "I  might  have  known. 
Does  Richey  know  I  am  here?" 

"I  don't  think  so."  I  turned  to  go  down  the 
stairs  again.  Then  I  halted.  "The  fact  is,"  I 
said,  in  an  attempt  at  justification,  "I'm  in 
rather  a  mess  these  days,  and  I'm  apt  to  do  irre 
sponsible  things.  It  is  not  impossible  that  I  shall 
be  arrested,  in  a  day  or  so,  for  the  murder  of 
Simon  Harrington." 

She  drew  her  breath  in  sharply.  "Murder!" 
she  echoed.  "Then  they  have  found  you  aftei 
all!" 

"I  don't  regard  it  as  anything  more  than — 
er — inconvenient,"  I  lied.  "They  can't  convict 
me,  you  know.  Almost  all  the  witnesses  are 
dead." 

She  was  not  deceived  for  a  moment.  She  came 
over  to  me  and  stood,  both  hands  on  the  rail  of 


A   NEW   WORLD  197 

the  stair.  "I  know  just  how  grave  it  is,"  she 
said  quietly.  My  grandfather  will  not  leave  one 
stone  unturned,  and  he  can  be  terrible — terrible. 
But" — she  looked  directly  into  my  eyes  as  I 
stood  below  her  on  the  stairs — "the  time  may 
come — soon — when  I  can  help  you.  I'm  afraid 
I  shall  not  want  to ;  I'm  a  dreadful  coward,  Mr. 
Blakeley.  But — I  will."  She  tried  to  smile. 

"I  wish  you  would  let  me  help  you"  I  said 
unsteadily.  "Let  us  make  it  a  bargain:  each 
help  the  other!" 

The  girl  shook  her  head  with  a  sad  little  smile. 
"I  am  only  as  unhappy  as  I  deserve  to  be,"  she 
said.  And  when  I  protested  and  took  a  step  to 
ward  her  she  retreated,  with  her  hands  out  be 
fore  her. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  me  all  the  questions  you 
are  thinking  ?"  she  demanded,  with  a  catch  in  her 
voice.  "Oh,  I  know  them.  Or  are  you  afraid 
to  ask?" 

I  looked  at  her,  at  the  lines  around  her  eyes, 
»t  the  drawn  look  about  her  mouth.  Then  I  held 
out  my  hand.  "Afraid !"  I  said,  as  she  gave  me 
hers.  "There  is  nothing  in  God's  green  earth 


198    THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

I  am  afraid  of,  save  of  trouble  for  you.  To  ask 
questions  would  be  to  imply  a  lack  of  faith.  I 
ask  you  nothing.  Some  day,  perhaps,  you  will 
come  to  me  yourself  and  let  me  help  you." 

The  next  moment  I  was  out  in  the  golden  sun 
shine:  the  birds  were  singing  carols  of  joy:  I 
walked  dizzily  through  rainbow-colored  clouds, 
past  the  twins,  cherubs  now,  swinging  on  the 
gate.  It  was  a  new  world  into  which  I  stepped 
from  the  Carter  farm-house  that  morning,  for — 
I  had  kissed  her ! 


AT  THE  TABLE  NEXT 

MC  KNIGHT  and  Hotchkiss  were  saunter 
ing  slowly  down  the  road  as  I  caught  up 
with  them.     As  usual,  the  little  man  was  busy 
with  some  abstruse  mental  problem. 

"The  idea  is  this,"  he  was  saying,  his  brows 
knitted  in  thought,  "if  a  left-handed  man,  stand 
ing  in  the  position  of  the  man  in  the  picture, 
should  jump  from  a  car,  would  he  be  likely  to 
sprain  his  right  ankle?  When  a  right-handed 
man  prepares  for  a  leap  of  that  kind,  my  theory 
is  that  he  would  hold  on  with  his  right  hand,  and 
alight  at  the  proper  time,  on  his  right  foot.  Of 
course — " 

"I  imagine,  although  I  don't  know,"  inter 
rupted  McKnight,  "that  a  man  either  ambidex 
trous  or  one-armed,  jumping  from  the  Washing 
ton  Flier,  would  be  more  likely  to  land  on  his 
head." 

199 


200    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

"Anyhow,"  I  interposed,  "what  difference 
3oes  it  make  whether  Sullivan  used  one  hand  or 
the  other?  One  pair  of  handcuffs  will  put  both 
hands  out  of  commission." 

As  usual  when  one  of  his  pet  theories  was  at 
tacked,  Hotchkiss  looked  aggrieved. 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  expostulated,  "don't  you 
understand  what  bearing  this  has  on  the  case? 
How  was  the  murdered  man  lying  when  he  was 
found?" 

"On  his  back,"  I  said  promptly,  "head  toward 
the  engine." 

"Very  well,"  he  retorted,  "and  what  then? 
Your  heart  lies  under  your  fifth  intercostal 
space,  and  to  reach  it  a  right-handed  blow  would 
have  struck  either  down  or  directly  in. 

"But,  gentlemen,  the  point  of  entrance  for 
the  stiletto  was  below  the  heart,  striking  up! 
As  Harrington  lay  with  his  head  toward  the  en 
gine,  a  person  in  the  aisle  must  have  used  the  t 
left  hand." 

McKnight's  eyes  sought  mine  and  he  winked 
at  me  solemnly  as  I  unostentatiously  transferred 
the  hat  I  was  carrying  to  my  right  hand.  Long 


AT   THE    TABLE    NEXT        201 

training  has  largely  counterbalanced  heredity  in 
my  case,  but  I  still  pitch  ball,  play  tennis  and 
carve  with  my  left  hand.  But  Hotchkiss  was  too 
busy  with  his  theories  to  notice  me. 

We  were  only  just  in  time  for  our  train  back 
to  Baltimore,  but  McKnight  took  advantage  of 
a  second's  delay  to  shake  the  station  agent 
warmly  by  the  hand. 

"I  want  to  express  my  admiration  for  you," 
he  said  beamingly.  "Ability  of  your  order  is 
thrown  away  here.  You  should  have  been  a  city 
policeman,  my  friend." 

The  agent  looked  a  trifle  uncertain. 

"The  young  lady  was  the  one  who  told  me  to 
keep  still,"  he  said. 

McKnight  glanced  at  me,  gave  the  agent's 
hand  a  final  shake,  and  climbed  on  board.  But 
I  knew  perfectly  that  he  had  guessed  the  reason 
for  my  delay. 

He  was  very  silent  on  the  way  home.  Hotch 
kiss,  too,  had  little  to  say.  He  was  reading  over 
his  notes  intently,  stopping  now  and  then  to 
make  a  penciled  addition.  Just  before  we  left 
the  train  Richey  turned  to  me.  "I  suppose  it 


302    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

was  the  key  to  the  door  that  she  tied  to  thft 
gate?" 

"Probably.    I  did  not  ask  her." 

"Curious,  her  locking  that  fellow  in,"  he  re 
flected. 

"You  may  depend  on  it,  there  was  a  good  rea 
son  for  it  all.  And  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so 
suspicious  of  motives,  Rich,"  I  said  warmly. 

"Only  yesterday  you  were  the  suspicious  one," 
he  retorted,  and  we  lapsed  into  strained  silence. 

It  was  late  when  we  got  to  Washington. 
One  of  Mrs.  Klopton's  small  tyrannies  was  ex 
acting  punctuality  at  meals,  and,  like  several 
other  things,  I  respected  it.  There  are  always 
Some  concessions  that  should  be  made  in  return 
for  faithful  service. 

So,  as  my  dinner  hour  of  seven  was  long  past, 
McKnight  and  I  went  to  a  little  restaurant  down 
town  where  they  have  a  very  decent  way  of  fix 
ing  chicken  a  la  King.  Hotchkiss  had  departed, 
economically  bent,  for  a  small  hotel  where  he 
lived  on  the  American  plan. 

"I  want  to  think  some  things  over,"  he  said 
in  response  to  my  invitation  to  dinner,  "and,  any- 


AT   THE    TABLE    NEX'E         203 

how,  there's  no  use  dining  out  when  I  pay  the 
same,  dinner  or  no  dinner,  where  I  am  stopping." 

The  day  had  been  hot,  and  the  first  floor  din 
ing-room  was  sultry  in  spite  of  the  palms  and 
fans  which  attempted  to  simulate  the  verdure 
and  breezes  of  the  country. 

It  was  crowded,  too,  with  a  typical  summer 
night  crowd,  and,  after  sitting  for  a  few  min 
utes  in  a  sweltering  corner,  we  got  up  and  went 
to  the  smaller  dining-room  up-stairs.  Here  it 
was  not  so  warm,  and  we  settled  ourselves  comr 
fortably  by  a  window. 

Over  in  a  corner  half  a  dozen  boys  on  their 
way  back  to  school  were  ragging  a  perspiring 
waiter,  a  proceeding  so  exactly  to  McKnight's 
taste  that  he  insisted  on  going  over  to  join 
them.  But  their  table  was  full,  and  somehow 
that  kind  of  fun  had  lost  its  point  for  me. 

Not  far  from  us  a  very  stout,  middle-aged 
man,  apoplectic  with  the  heat,  was  elephantinely 
jolly  for  the  benefit  of  a  bored-looking  girl 
across  the  table  from  him,  and  at  the  next  table 
a  newspaper  woman  ate  alone,  the  last  edition 
propped  against  the  water-bottle  before  her,  her 


804    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

hat,  for  coolness,  on  the  corner  of  the  table.  It 
was  a  motley  Bohemian  crowd. 

I  looked  over  the  room  casually,  while  Mc- 
Knight  ordered  the  meal.  Then  my  attention 
was  attracted  to  the  table  next  to  ours.  Two 
people  were  sitting  there,  so  deep  in  conversation 
that  they  did  not  notice  us.  The  woman's  face 
was  hidden  under  her  hat,  as  she  traced  the  pat 
tern  of  the  cloth  mechanically  with  her  fork. 
But  the  man's  features  stood  out  clear  in  the 
light  of  the  candles  on  the  table.  It  was  Bron- 
son! 

"He  shows  the  strain,  doesn't  he?"  McKnight 
said,  holding  up  the  wine  list  as  if  he  read  from 
it.  "Who's  the  woman?" 

"Search  me,"  I  replied,  in  the  same  way. 

When  the  chicken  came,  I  still  found  myself 
gazing  now  and  then  at  the  abstracted  couple 
near  me.  Evidently  the  subject  of  conversation 
j  was  unpleasant.  Bronson  was  eating  little,  the 
woman  not  at  all.  Finally  he  got  up,  pushed 
his  chair  back  noisily,  thrust  a  bill  at  the  waiter 
and  stalked  out. 

The  woman  sat  still  for  a  moment ;  then,  witt 


AT   THE    TABLE    NEXT2 

an  apparent  resolution  to  make  the  best  of  it, 
she  began  slowly  to  eat  the  meal  before  her. 

But  the  quarrel  had  taken  away  her  appetite, 
for  the  mixture  in  our  chafing-dish  was  hardly  i 
ready  to  serve  before  she  pushed  her  chair  back 
a  little  and  looked  around  the  room. 

I  caught  my  first  glimpse  of  her  face  then, 
and  I  confess  it  startled  me.  It  was  the  tall, 
stately  woman  of  the  Ontario,  the  woman  I  had 
last  seen  cowering  beside  the  road,  rolling  peb 
bles  in  her  hand,  blood  streaming  from  a  cut 
over  her  eye.  I  could  see  the  scar  now,  a  little 
affair,  about  an  inch  long,  gleaming  red  through 
its  layers  of  powder. 

And  then,  quite  unexpectedly,  she  turned  and 
looked  directly  at  me.  After  a  minute's  uncer 
tainty,  she  bowed,  letting  her  eyes  rest  on  mine 
with  a  calmly  insolent  stare.  She  glanced  at 
McKnight  for  a  moment,  then  back  to  me. 
When  she  looked  away  again  I  breathed  easier. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  McKnight  under  his 
breath. 

"Ontario."  I  formed  it  with  my  lips  rather 
titan  said  it.  McKnight's  eyebrows  went  up  and 


806    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

he  looked  with  increased  interest  at  the  biacS> 
gowned  figure. 

I  ate  little  after  that.  The  situation  vrai 
rather  bad  for  me,  I  began  to  see.  Here  was  a 
woman  who  could,  if  she  wished,  and  had  anj 
motive  for  so  doing,  put  me  in  jail  under  a 
capital  charge.  A  word  from  her  to  the  police, 
and  polite  surveillance  would  become  active  in 
terference. 

Then,  too,  she  could  say  that  she  had  seen  me, 
just  after  the  wreck,  with  a  young  woman  from 
the  murdered  man's  car,  and  thus  probablj 
bring  Alison  West  into  the  case. 

It  is  not  surprising,  then,  that  I  ate  little. 
The  woman  across  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  go. 
She  loitered  over  a  demi-tasse,  and  that  finished, 
sat  with  her  elbow  on  the  table,  her  chin  in  her 
hand,  looking  darkly  at  the  changing  groups  in 
the  room. 

The  fun  at  the  table  where  the  college  boys 
sat  began  to  grow  a  little  noisy;  the  fat  man, 
now  a  purplish  shade,  ambled  away  behind  his 
•lim  companion;  the  newspaper  woman  pinned 


20T? 

on  her  business-like  hat  and  stalked  out*  Still 
the  woman  at  the  next  table  waited. 

It  was  a  relief  when  the  meal  was  over.  We 
got  our  hats  and  were  about  to  leave  the  room,* 
when  a  waiter  touched  me  on  the  arm. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  "but  the 
lady  at  the  table  near  the  window,  the  lady  In 
black,  sir,  would  like  to  speak  to  you." 

I  looked  down  between  the  rows  of  tables  to 
where  the  woman  sat  alone,  her  chin  still  resting 
on  her  hand,  her  black  eyes  still  insolently  star 
ing,  this  time  at  me. 

"I'll  have  to  go,"  I  said  to  McKnight  hur 
riedly.  "She  knows  all  about  that  affair  and 
she'd  be  a  bad  enemy." 

"I  don't  like  her  lamps,"  McKnight  observed, 
after  a  glance  at  her.  "Better  jolly  her  a  little. 
Good-by." 


THE  NOTES  AND  A  BABGAIN 

I    WENT  back  slowly  to  where  the  woman  sat 
alone.     She  smiled  rather  oddly  as  I  drew 
near,  and  pointed  to  the  chair  Bronson  had  va 
cated. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Blakeley,"  she  said,  "I  am  go 
ing  to  take  a  few  minutes  of  your  valuable  time." 

"Certainly."  I  sat  down  opposite  her  and 
glanced  at  a  cuckoo  clock  on  the  wall.  "I  am 
sorry,  but  I  have  only  a  few  minutes.  If  you — " 
She  laughed  a  little,  not  very  pleasantly,  and 
opening  a  small  black  fan  covered  with  span 
gles,  waved  it  slowly. 

"The  fact  is,"  she  said,  "I  think  we  are  about 
lo  make  a  bargain." 

"'A  bargain?"  I  asked  incredulously.  "You 
have  a  second  advantage  of  me.  You  know  my 
name" — I  paused  suggestively  and  she  took  the 
cue. 

208 


THE    NOTES   AND   A   BARGAIN    209 

"I  am  Mrs.  Conway,"  she  said,  and  flicked  a 
crumb  off  the  table  with  an  over-manicured  fin 
ger. 

The  name  was  scarcely  a  surprise.  I  had  al 
ready  surmised  that  this  might  be  the  woman 
whom  rumor  credited  as  being  Bronson's  com 
mon-law  wife.  Rumor,  I  remembered,  had  said 
other  things  even  less  pleasant,  things  which 
had  been  brought  out  at  Bronson's  arrest  for 
forgery. 

"We  met  last  under  less  fortunate  circum 
stances,"  she  was  saying.  "I  have  been  fit  for 
nothing  since  that  terrible  day.  And  you — you 
had  a  broken  arm,  I  think." 

"I  still  have  it,"  I  said,  with  a  lame  attempt 
at  jocularity;  "but  to  have  escaped  at  all  was  a 
miracle.  We  have  much,  indeed,  to  be  thankful 
for." 

"I  suppose  we  have,"  she  said  carelessly,  "al 
though  sometimes  I  doubt  it."  She  was  looking 
somberly  toward  the  door  through  which  her  late 
companion  had  made  his  exit. 

"You  sent  for  me — "  I  said. 

"Yes,  I  sent  for  you."     She  roused  herself 


210    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

and  sat  erect.  "Now,  Mr.  Blakelej,  have  you 
found  those  papers  ?" 

"The  papers?  What  papers?"  I  parried.  1 
needed  time  to  think. 

"Mr.  Blakeley,"  she  said  quietly,  "  I  think 
we  can  lay  aside  all  subterfuge.  In  the  first 
place  let  me  refresh  your  mind  about  a  few 
things.  The  Pittsburg  police  are  looking  for 
the  survivors  of  the  car  Ontario ;  there  are  three 
that  I  know  of — yourself,  the  young  woman 
with  whom  you  left  the  scene  of  the  wreck,  and 
myself.  The  wreck,  you  will  admit,  was  a  for 
tunate  one  for  you." 

I  nodded  without  speaking. 

"At  the  time  of  the  collision  you  were  in 
rather  a  hole,"  she  went  on,  looking  at  me  with 
a  disagreeable  smile.  "You  were,  if  I  remember, 
accused  of  a  rather  atrocious  crime.  There  was 
a  lot  of  corroborative  evidence,  was  there  not?  I 
seem  to  remember  a  dirk  and  the  murdered  man's 
pocket-book  in  your  possession,  and  a  few  other 
things  that  were — well,  rather  unpleasant." 

I  was  thrown  a  bit  off  my  guard. 

"You  remember  also,"  I  said  quickly,  "that  a 


THE  NOTES  AND  A  BARGAIN  211 

man  disappeared  from  the  car,  taking  my 
clothes,  papers  and  everything." 

"I  remember  that  you  said  so."  Her  tone  waa 
quietly  insulting,  and  I  bit  my  lip  at  having 
been  caught.  It  was  no  time  to  make  a  defense. 

"You  have  missed  one  calculation,"  I  said 
coldly,  "and  that  is,  the  discovery  of  the  maB 
who  left  the  train." 

"You  have  found  him?"  She  bent  forward, 
and  again  I  regretted  my  hasty  speech.  "I  knew 
it ;  I  said  so." 

"We  are  going  to  find  him,"  I  asserted,  with' 
a  confidence  I  did  not  feel.  "We  can  produce 
at  any  time  proof  that  a  man  left  the  Flier  a 
few  miles  beyond  the  wreck.  And  we  can  find 
him,  I  am  positive." 

"But  you  have  not  found  him  yet?"  She  was 
clearly  disappointed.  "Well,  so  be  it.  Now  for 
our  bargain.  You  will  admit  that  I  am  no  fool." 

I  made  no  such  admission,  and  she  smiled 
mockingly. 

"How  flattering  you  are!"  she  said.  "Very 
well.  Now  for  the  premises.  You  take  to  Pitts- 
burg  four  notes  held  by  the  Mechanics'  National 


THE    MAN    IN   LOWER    TEN 

Bank,  to  have  Mr.  Gilmore,  who  is  ill,  declare  hi* 
indorsement  of  them  forged. 

"On  the  journey  back  to  Pittsburg  two  things 
happen  to  you :  you  lose  your  clothing,  your  va 
lise  and  your  papers,  including  the  notes,  and 
you  are  accused  of  murder.  In  fact,  Mr.  Blake- 
ley,  the  circumstances  were  most  singular,  and 
the  evidence — well,  almost  conclusive." 

I  was  completely  at  her  mercy,  but  I  gnawed 
my  lip  with  irritation. 

"Now  for  the  bargain."  She  leaned  over  and 
lowered  her  voice.  "A  fair  exchange,  you  know. 
The  minute  you  put  those  four  notes  in  my  hand 
— that  minute  the  blow  to  my  head  has  caused 
complete  forgetfulness  as  to  the  events  of  that 
awful  morning.  I  am  the  only  witness,  and  I  will 
be  silent.  Do  you  understand?  They  will  call  off 
their  dogs." 

My  head  was  buzzing  with  the  strangeness  of 
the  idea. 

"But,"  I  said,  striving  to  gain  time,  "I 
haven't  the  notes.  I  can't  give  you  what  I 
haven't  got." 

"You  have  had  the  case  continued,"  she  said 


THE    NOTES   AND   'A   BARGAIN 

sharply.  "You  expect  to  find  them.  Another 
thing,"  she  added  slowly,  watching  my  face,  "if 
you  don't  get  them  soon,  Bronson  will  have  them. 
They  have  been  offered  to  him  already,  but  at  a 
prohibitive  price." 

"But,"  I  said,  bewildered,  "what  is  your  ob 
ject  in  coming  to  me?  If  Bronson  will  get  them 
anyhow — " 

She  shut  her  fan  with  a  click  and  her  face 
was  not  particularly  pleasant  to  look  at. 

"You  are  dense,"  she  said  insolently.  "I  want 
those  papers — for  myself,  not  for  Andy  Bron 
son." 

"Then  the  idea  is,"  I  said,  ignoring  her  tone, 
"that  you  think  you  have  me  in  a  hole,  and  that 
if  I  find  those  papers  and  give  them  to  you  you 
will  let  me  out.  As  I  understand  it,  our  friend 
Bronson,  under  those  circumstances,  will  also  be 
in  a  hole." 

She  nodded. 

"The  notes  would  be  of  no  use  to  you  for  a 
limited  length  of  time,"  I  went  on,  watching  her 
narrowly.  "If  they  are  not  turned  over  to  the 
state's  attorney  within  a  reasonable  time  there 


THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

will  have  to  be  a  nolle  pros — that  is,  the  case  wiH 
•imply  be  dropped  for  lack  of  evidence." 

"A  week  would  answer,  I  think,"  she  said, 
slowly.    "You  will  do  it,  then  ?" 

I  laughed,  although  I  was  not  especiallj 
cheerful. 

"No,  I'll  not  do  it.  I  expect  to  come  across 
the  notes  any  time  now,  and  I  expect  just  aa 
certainly  to  turn  them  over  to  the  state's  attor 
ney  when  I  get  them." 

She  got  up  suddenly,  pushing  her  chair  back 
with  a  noisy  grating  sound  that  turned  manj 
eyes  toward  us. 

"You're  more  of  a  fool  than  I  thought  you," 
she  sneered,  and  left  me  at  the  table. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

MC  KNIGHT'S  THEORY 

I  CONFESS  I  was  staggered.   The  peopk  *t 
the  surrounding  tables,  after  glancing  curi 
ously  in  my  direction,  looked  away  again. 

I  got  my  hat  and  went  out  in  a  very  uncom 
fortable  frame  of  mind.  That  she  would  inform 
the  police  at  once  of  what  she  knew  I  never 
doubted,  unless  possibly  she  would  give  a  day  or 
two's  grace  in  the  hope  that  I  would  change  my 
mind. 

I  reviewed  the  situation  as  I  waited  for  a  car. 
Two  passed  me  going  in  the  opposite  direction, 
and  on  the  first  one  I  saw  Bronson,  his  hat  over 
!  his  eyes,  his  arms  folded,  looking  moodily  ahead. 
Was  it  imagination  ?  or  was  the  small  man  hud 
dled  in  the  corner  of  the  rear  seat  Hotchkiss  ? 
As  the  car  rolled  on  I  found  myself  smiling. 
215 


216    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

The  alert  little  man  was  for  all  the  world  like  a 
terrier,  ever  on  the  scent,  and  scouring  about  in 
every  direction. 

I  found  McKnight  at  the  Incubator,  with  his 
coat  off,  working  with  enthusiasm  and  a  mani 
cure  file  over  the  horn  of  his  auto. 

"It's  the  worst  horn  I  ever  ran  across,"  he 
groaned,  without  looking  up,  as  I  came  in.  "The 
blankety-blank  thing  won't  blow." 

He  punched  it  savagely,  finally  eliciting  a 
faint  throaty  croak. 

"Sounds  like  croup,"  I  suggested.  "My  sis 
ter-in-law  uses  camphor  and  goose  greese  for  it ; 
or  how  about  a  spice  poultice?" 

But  McKnight  never  sees  any  jokes  but  his 
own.  He  flung  the  horn  clattering  into  a  corner, 
and  collapsed  sulkily  into  a  chair. 

"Now,"  I  said,  "if  you're  through  manicuring 
that  horn,  I'll  tell  you  about  my  talk  with  the 
lady  in  black." 

"What's  wrong?"  asked  McKnight  languidly. 
"Police  watching  her,  too  ?" 

"Not  exactly.  The  fact  is.  Rich,  there's  the 
mischief  to  pay." 


MCKNIGHT'S   THEORY          31T 

Stogie  came  In,  bringing  a  few*  additions  to 
our  comfort.  When  he  went  out  I  told  my  story. 

"You  must  remember,"  I  said,  "that  I  had 
seen  this  woman  before  the  morning  of  the  wreck. 
She  was  buying  her  Pullman  ticket  when  I  did. 
Then  the  next  morning,  when  the  murder  was 
discovered,  she  grew  hysterical,  and  I  gave  her 
some  whisky.  The  third  and  last  time  I  saw  her, 
until  to-night,  was  when  she  crouched  beside  the 
road,  after  the  wreck." 

McKnight  slid  down  in  his  chair  until  his 
weight  rested  on  the  small  of  his  back,  and  put 
his  feet  on  the  big  reading  table. 

"It  is  rather  a  facer,"  he  said.  "It's  really 
too  good  a  situation  for  a  commonplace  lawyer. 
It  ought  to  be  dramatized.  You  can't  agree,  of 
course;  and  by  refusing  you  run  the  chance  of 
jail,  at  least,  and  of  having  Alison  brought  into 
publicity,  which  is  out  of  the  question.  You 
say  she  was  at  the  Pullman  window  when  you 
were?" 

"Yes ;  I  bought  her  ticket  for  her.  Gave  her 
lower  eleven." 

"And  you  took  ten?" 


218    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

"Lower  ten." 

McKnight  straightened  up  and  looked  at  me. 

"Then  she  thought  you  were  in  lower  ten." 

"I  suppose  she  did,  if  she  thought  at  all." 

"But  listen,  man."  McKnight  was  growing1 
excited.  "What  do  you  figure  out  of  this  ?  The 
Conway  woman  knows  you  have  taken  the  notes 
to  Pittsburg.  The  probabilities  are  that  she  fol 
lows  you  there,  on  the  chance  of  an  opportunity 
to  get  them,  either  for  Bronson  or  herself. 

"Nothing  doing  during  the  trip  over  or  dur 
ing  the  day  in  Pittsburg ;  but  she  learns  the  num 
ber  of  your  berth  as  you  buy  it  at  the  Pullman 
ticket  office  in  Pittsburg,  and  she  thinks  she  sees 
her  chance.  No  one  could  have  foreseen  that 
that  drunken  fellow  would  have  crawled  into 
your  berth. 

"Now,  I  figure  it  out  this  way:  She  wanted 
N  those  notes  desperately — does  still — not  for 
Bronson,  but  to  hold  over  his  head  for  some  pur 
pose.  In  the  night,  when  everything  is  quiet,  she 
slips  behind  the  curtains  of  lower  ten,  where  the 
man's  breathing  shows  he  is  asleep.  Didn't  you 
say  he  snored?" 


McKNIGHT'S    THEORY          819 

"He  did,"  I  affirmed.  "But  I  tell  you— •" 

""Now  keep  still  and  listen.  She  gropes  cau 
tiously  around  in  the  darkness,  finally  discover 
ing  the  wallet  under  the  pillow.  Can't  you  see  it 
yourself?" 

He  was  leaning  forward,  excitedly,  and  I  could 
almost  see  the  gruesome  tragedy  he  was  depict 
ing. 

"She  draws  out  the  wallet.  Then,  perhaps  she 
remembers  the  alligator  bag,  and  on  the  possi 
bility  that  the  notes  are  there,  instead  of  in  the 
pocket-book,  she  gropes  around  for  it.  Sud 
denly,  the  man  awakes  and  clutches  at  the  near 
est  object,  perhaps  her  neck  chain,  which  breaks. 
She  drops  the  pocket-book  and  tries  to  escape, 
but  he  has  caught  her  right  hand. 

"It  is  all  in  silence ;  the  man  is  still  stupidly 
drunk.    But  he  holds  her  in  a  tight  grip.   Then 
the  tragedy.    She  must  get  away;  in  a  minute, 
the  car  will  be  aroused.   Such  a  woman,  on  suchj 
an  errand,  does  not  go  without  some  sort  of  a 
weapon,  in  this  case  a  dagger,  which,  unlike  a 
revolver,  is  noiseless. 

"With  a  quick  thrust — she's  a  big  woman  and 


220    THE    MAN   IN    LOWER    TEN 

a  bold  one — she  strikes.  Possibly  Hotchkiss  is 
right  about  the  left-hand  blow.  Harrington  may 
have  held  her  right  hand,  or  perhaps  she  held 
the  dirk  in  her  left  hand  as  she  groped  with  her 
right.  Then,  as  the  man  falls  back,  and  his  grasp 
relaxes,  she  straightens  and  attempts  to  get 
away.  The  swaying  of  the  car  throws  her  al 
most  into  your  berth,  and,  trembling  with  ter~ 
ror,  she  crouches  behind  the  curtains  of  lower  ten 
until  everything  is  still.  Then  she  goes  noise 
lessly  back  to  her  berth." 

I  nodded. 

"It  seems  to  fit  partly,  at  least,"  I  said.  "In 
the  morning  when  she  found  that  the  crime  had 
been  not  only  fruitless,  but  that  she  had  searched 
the  wrong  berth  and  killed  the  wrong  man ;  when 
she  saw  me  emerge,  unhurt,  just  as  she  was 
bracing  herself  for  the  discovery  of  my  dead 
body,  then  she  went  into  hysterics.  You  remem 
ber,  I  gave  her  some  whisky. 

"It  really  seems  a  tenable  theory.  But,  like  the 
Sullivan  theory,  there  are  one  or  two  things  that 
don't  agree  with  the  rest.  For  one  thing,  how  did 


MCKNIGHT'S    THEORY  221 

the  remainder  of  that  chain  get  into  Alison 
West's  possession?" 

"She  may  have  picked  it  up  on  the  floor." 

"We'll  admit  that,"  I  said;  "and  I'm  sure  I 
hope  so.  Then  how  did  the  murdered  man's  pock 
et-book  get  into  the  sealskin  bag?  And  the  dirk, 
how  account  for  that,  and  the  blood-stains?" 

"Now  what's  the  use,"  asked  McKnight  ag- 
grievedlj,  "of  my  building  up  beautiful  theories 
for  you  to  pull  down  ?  We'll  take  it  to  Hotchkiss. 
Maybe  he  can  tell  from  the  blood-stains  if  the 
murderer's  finger  nails  were  square  or  pointed." 

"Hotchkiss  is  no  fool,"  I  said  warmly.  "Un 
der  all  his  theories  there's  a  good  hard  layer  of 
common  sense.  And  we  must  remember,  Rich, 
that  neither  of  our  theories  includes  the  woman 
at  Doctor  Van  Kirk's  hospital,  that  the  charming 
picture  you  have  just  drawn  does  not  account  for 
Alison  West's  connection  with  the  case,  or  for 
the  bits  of  telegram  in  the  Sullivan  fellow's 
pajamas  pocket.  You  are  like  the  man  who  put 
the  clock  together ;  you've  got  half  of  the  works 
left  over." 


THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

"Oh,  go  home,"  said  McKnight  disgustedly. 
"I'm  no  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  What's  the  use  of 
coming  here  and  asking  me  things  if  you're  so 
particular?" 

With  one  of  his  quick  changes  of  mood,  he 
picked  up  his  guitar. 

"Listen  to  this,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  Hawaiian 
song  about  a  fat  lady,  oh,  ignorant  one !  and  how 
she  fell  off  her  mule." 

But  for  all  the  lightness  of  the  words,  the 
voice  that  followed  me  down  the  stairs  was  any 
thing  but  cheery. 

"There  was  a  Kanaka  in  Balu  did  dwell, 
Who  had  for  his  daughter  a  monstrous   fat 
girl—" 

he  sang  in  his  clear  tenor.    I  paused  on  the  lower 
floor  and  listened.     He  had  stopped  singing  as 
.  abruptly  as  he  had  begun. 


CHAPTER   XXH 

\ 

AT   THE  BOAEDING-HOUSE 

I  HAD  not  been  home  for  thirty-six  hours, 
since  the  morning  of  the  preceding  day. 
Johnson  was  not  in  sight,  and  I  let  myself  in 
quietly  with  my  latch-key.  It  was  almost  mid 
night,  and  I  had  hardly  settled  myself  in  the  li 
brary  when  the  bell  rang  and  I  was  surprised  to 
find  Hotchkiss,  much  out  of  breath,  in  the  vesti 
bule. 

"Why,  come  in,  Mr.  Hotchkiss,"  I  said.     "I 
thought  you  were  going  home  to  go  to  bed." 

"So  I  was,  so  I  was."  He  dropped  into  a  chair 
beside  my  reading  lamp  and  mopped  his  face. 
"And  here  it  is  almost  midnight,  and  I'm  wider 
awake  than  ever.    I've  seen  Sullivan,  Mr.  Blake- ; 
ley." 

"You  have!" 

**I  have,"  he  said  impressively. 
223 


THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

"You  were  following  Bronson  at  eight  o'clock. 
Was  that  when  it  happened?" 

"Something  of  the  sort.  When  I  left  you  at 
the  door  of  the  restaurant,  I  turned  and  almost 
ran  into  a  plain  clothes  man  f  rone  the  central  of 
fice.  I  know  him  pretty  well;  once  or  twice  he 
has  taken  me  with  him  on  interesting  bits  of 
work.  He  knows  my  hobby. 

"You  know  him,  too,  probably.  It  was  the 
man  Arnold,  the  detective  whom  the  state's  at 
torney  has  had  watching  Bronson." 

Johnson  being  otherwise  occupied,  I  had  asked 
for  Arnold  myself. 

I  nodded. 

"Well,  he  stopped  me  at  once ;  said  he'd  been 
on  the  fellow's  tracks  since  early  morning  and 
had  had  no  time  for  luncheon.  Bronson,  it  seems, 
isn't  eating  much  these  days.  I  at  once  jotted 
down  the  fact,  because  it  argued  that  he  was  be- 
f  ing  bothered  by  the  man  with  the  notes." 

"It  might  point  to  other  tilings,"  I  suggested. 
("Indigestion,  you  know." 

Hotchkiss  ignored  me.  "Well,  Arnold  had 
some  reason  for  thinking  that  Bronson  would 


try  to  give  him  the  slip  that  night,  so  he  asked 
me  to  stay  around  the  private  entrance  there 
while  he  ran  across  the  street  and  got  something 
to  eat.  It  seemed  a  fair  presumption  that,  as  he 
had  gone  there  with  a  lady,  they  would  dine  lei 
surely,  and  Arnold  would  have  plenty  of  time  to 
get  back." 

"What  about  your  own  dinner?"  I  asked  curi 
ously. 

"Sir,"  he  said  pompously,  "I  have  given  you 
a  wrong  estimate  of  Wilson  Budd  Hotchkiss 
if  you  think  that  a  question  of  dinner  would  even 
obtrude  itself  on  his  mind  at  such  a  time  as  this." 

He  was  a  frail  little  man,  and  to-night  he 
looked  pale  with  heat  and  over-exertion. 

"Did  you  have  any  luncheon?"  I  asked. 

He  was  somewhat  embarrassed  at  that. 

"I — really,  Mr.  Blakeley,  the  events  of  the 
day  were  so  engrossing — " 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I'm  not  going  to  see  you 
drop  on  the  floor  from  exhaustion.  Just  wait  a 
minute." 

I  went  back  to  the  pantry,  only  to  be  con 
fronted  with  rows  of  locked  doors  and  emptj 


226    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

dishes.  Down-stairs,  in  the  basement  kitchen, 
however,  I  found  two  unattractive  looking  cold 
chops,  some  dry  bread  and  a  piece  of  cake, 
wrapped  in  a  napkin,  and  from  its  surreptitious  I 
and  generally  hang-dog  appearance,  destined 
for  the  coachman  in  the  stable  at  the  rear.  Trays 
there  were  none — everything  but  the  chairs  and 
tables  seemed  under  lock  and  key,  and  there  was 
neither  napkin,  knife  nor  fork  to  be  found. 

The  luncheon  was  not  attractive  in  appear 
ance,  but  Hotchkiss  ate  his  cold  chops  and 
gnawed  at  his  crusts  as  though  he  had  been  fam 
ished,  while  he  told  his  story. 

"I  had  been  there  only  a  few  minutes,"  he 
said,  with  a  chop  in  one  hand  and  the  cake  in  the 
other,  "when  Bronson  rushed  out  and  cut  across 
the  street.  He's  a  tall  man,  Mr.  Blakeley,  and  I 
had  hard  work  keeping  close.  It  was  a  relief 
when  he  jumped  on  a  passing  car,  although  be 
ing  well  behind,  it  was  a  hard  run  for  me  to 
catch  him.  He  had  left  the  lady. 

"Once  on  the  car,  we  simply  rode  from  one 
end  of  the  line  to  the  other  and  back  again.     I 
suppose  he  was  passing  the  time,  for  he  looked 


AT    THE    BOARDING-HOUSE     227 

at  his  watch  now  and  then,  and  when  I  did  once 
get  a  look  at  his  face  it  made  me — er — uncom 
fortable.  He  could  have  crushed  me  like  a  fly, 
sir." 

I  had  brought  Mr.  Hotchkiss  a  glass  of  wine, 
and  he  was  looking  better.  He  stopped  to  finish 
it,  declining  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  to  have  it 
refilled,  and  continued: 

"About  nine  o'clock  or  a  little  later  he  got  off 
somewhere  near  Washington  Circle.  He  went 
along  one  of  the  residence  streets  there,  turned  to 
his  left  a  square  or  two,  and  rang  a  bell.  He 
had  been  admitted  when  I  got  there,  but  I 
guessed  from  the  appearance  of  the  place  that  it 
was  a  boarding-house. 

"I  waited  a  few  minutes  and  rang  the  bell. 
When  a  maid  answered  it,  I  asked  for  Mr.  Sul 
livan.  Of  course  there  was  no  Mr.  Sullivan 
there. 

"I  said  I  was  sorry ;  that  the  man  I  was  look 
ing  for  was  a  new  boarder.  She  was  sure  there 
was  no  such  boarder  in  the  house ;  the  only  new 
arrival  was  a  man  on  the  third  floor-— she 
thought  his  name  was  Stuart. 


228    THE    MAN    IN   LOWER    TEN 

"  'My  friend  has  a  cousin  by  that  name,'  I 
said.  'I'll  just  go  up  and  see.' 

"She  wanted  to  show  me  up,  but  I  said  it  was 
unnecessary.  So  after  telling  me  it  was  the  bed 
room  and  sitting-room  on  the  third  floor  front,  I 
went  up. 

"I  met  a  couple  of  men  on  the  stairs,  but  nei 
ther  of  them  paid  any  attention  to  me.  A  board 
ing-house  is  the  easiest  place  in  the  world  to 
enter." 

"They're  not  always  so  easy  to  leave,"  I  put 
in,  to  his  evident  irritation. 

"When  I  got  to  the  third  story,  I  took  out  a 
bunch  of  keys  and  posted  myself  by  a  door  near 
the  ones  the  girl  had  indicated.  I  could  hear 
voices  in  one  of  the  front  rooms,  but  could  not 
understand  what  they  said. 

"There  was  no  violent  dispute,  but  a  steady 
hum.  Then  Bronson  jerked  the  door  open.  If  he 
had  stepped  into  the  hall  he  would  have  seen  me 
fitting  a  key  into  the  door  before  me.  But  he 
spoke  before  he  came  out. 

"  'You're  acting  like  a  maniac,'  h«  f  aid.  'You 
fonow  I  can  get  those  things  gome  way ;  I'm  not 


AT    THE    BOARDING-HOUSE 

going  to  threaten  you.  It  isn't  necessary.  You 
know  me.' 

"  'It  would  be  no  use,'  the  other  man  said.  1 
tell  you,  I  haven't  seen  the  notes  for  ten  days.' 

"  'But  you  will,'  Bronson  said  savagely. 
Tou're  standing  in  your  own  way,  that's  all.  If 
you're  holding  out  expecting  me  to  raise  my  fig 
ure,  you're  making  a  mistake.  It's  my  last 
offer.' 

"  'I  couldn't  take  it  if  it  was  for  a  million,' 
said  the  man  inside  the  room.  'I'd  do  it,  I  ex 
pect,  if  I  could.  The  best  of  us  have  our  price.' 

"Bronson  slammed  the  door  then,  and  flung 
past  me  down  the  hall. 

"After  a  couple  of  minutes  I  knocked  at  the 
door,  and  a  tall  man  about  your  size,  Mr.  Blake- 
ley,  opened  it.  He  was  very  blond,  with  a 
smooth  face  and  blue  eyes — what  I  think  you 
would  call  a  handsome  man. 

"  'I  beg  your  pardon  for  disturbing  you,'  I 
said.  'Can  you  tell  me  which  is  Mr.  Johnson's 
room?  Mr.  Francis  Johnson?' 

"  'I  can  not  say,'  he  replied  civilly.  I've  only 
been  here  a  few  days.' 


830    THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

"I  thanked  him  and  left,  but  I  had  had  a  good 
look  at  him,  and  I  think  I'd  know  him  readily 
any  place." 

I  sat  for  a  few  minutes  thinking  it  over.  "But 
what  did  he  mean  by  saying  he  hadn't  seen  the 
notes  for  ten  days  ?  And  why  is  Bronson  making 
the  overtures?" 

"I  think  he  was  lying,"  Hotchkiss  reflected. 
c*Bronson  hasn't  reached  his  figure." 

"It's  a  big  advance,  Mr.  Hotchkiss,  and  I  ap 
preciate  what  you  have  done  more  than  I  can  tell 
you,"  I  said.  "And  now,  if  you  can  locate  any 
of  my  property  in  this  fellow's  room,  we'll  send 
him  up  for  larceny,  and  at  least  have  him  where 
we  can  get  at  him,  I'm  going  to  Cresson  to 
morrow,  to  try  to  trace  him  a  little  from  there. 
But  I'll  be  back  in  a  couple  of  days,  and  we'll 
begin  to  gather  in  these  scattered  threads." 

Hotchkiss  rubbed  his  hands  together  delight 
edly. 

"That's  it,"  he  said.  "That's  what  we  want 
to  do,  Mr.  Blakeley.  We'll  gather  up  the  threads 
ourselves ;  if  we  let  the  police  in  too  soon,  they'll 
tangle  it  up  again.  I'm  not  vindictive  by  na- 


AT   THE   BOARDING-HOUSE 

ture;  but  when  a  fellow  like  Sullivan  not  only 
commits  a  murder,  but  goes  to  all  sorts  of  trou 
ble  to  put  the  burden  of  guilt  on  an  innocent 
man — I  say  hunt  him  down,  sir !" 

"You  are  convinced,  of  course,  that  Sullivan 
did  it?" 

"Who  else?"  He  looked  over  his  glasses  at  me 
with  the  air  of  a  man  whose  mental  attitude  ia 
unassailable. 

"Well,  listen  to  this,"  I  said. 

Then  I  told  him  at  length  of  my  encounter 
with  Bronson  in  the  restaurant,  of  the  bargain 
proposed  by  Mrs.  Conway,  and  finally  of  Mc- 
Knight's  new  theory.  But,  although  he  was  im 
pressed,  he  was  far  from  convinced. 

"It's  a  very  vivid  piece  of  imagination,"  he 
said  drily ;  "but  while  it  fits  the  evidence  as  far 
as  it  goes,  it  doesn't  go  far  enough.  How  about 
the  stains  in  lower  seven,  the  dirk,  and  the  wal 
let?  Haven't  we  even  got  motive  in  that  tele 
gram  from  Bronson?" 

"Yes,"  I  admitted,  "but  that  bit  of  chain—" 

"Pooh,"  he  said  shortly.  "Perhaps,  like  your 
self,  Sullivan  wore  glasses  with  a  chain.  Our 


THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

not  finding  them  does  not  prove  they  did  not 
exist." 

And  there  I  made  an  error;  half  confidences 
are  always  mistakes.     I  could  not  tell  of  the' 
broken  chain  in  Alison  West's  gold  purse. 

It  was  one  o'clock  when  Hotchkiss  finally  left. 
We  had  by  that  time  arranged  a  definite  course 
of  action — Hotchkiss  to  search  Sullivan's  rooms 
and  if  possible  find  evidence  to  have  him  held 
for  larceny,  while  I  went  to  Cresson. 

Strangely  enough,  however,  when  I  entered 
the  train  the  following  morning,  Hotchkiss  was 
already  there.  He  had  bought  a  new  note-book, 
and  was  sharpening  a  fresh  pencil. 

"I  changed  my  plans,  you  see,"  he  said,  bus 
tling  his  newspaper  aside  for  me.  "It  is  no  dis 
credit  to  your  intelligence,  Mr.  Blakeley,  but 
you  lack  the  professional  eye,  the  analytical 
mind.  You  legal  gentlemen  call  a  spade  a  spade, 
although  it  may  be  a  shovel." 

"  *A  primrose  by  the  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  nothing  more !' ' 
I  quoted  as  the  train  pulled  out. 


CHAPTER 

A  NIGHT  AT  THE  LAURELS 

I  SLEPT  most  of  the  way  to  Cresson,  to  the 
disgust  of  the  little  detective.  Finally  he 
struck  up  an  acquaintance  with  a  kindly-faced 
old  priest  on  his  way  home  to  his  convent  school, 
armed  with  a  roll  of  dance  music  and  surrepti 
tious  bundles  that  looked  like  boxes  of  candy. 
From  scraps  of  conversation  I  gleaned  that 
there  had  been  mysterious  occurrences  at  the 
convent, — ending  in  the  theft  of  what  the  rev 
erend  father  called  vaguely,  "a  quantity  of  un- 
dermuslins."  I  dropped  asleep  at  that  point, 
and  when  I  roused  a  few  moments  later,  the  con 
versation  had  progressed.  Hotchkiss  had  a  dia 
gram  on  an  envelope. 

"With  this  window  bolted,  and  that  one  inac 
cessible,  and  if,  as  you  say,  the — er — garments 
were  in  a  tub  here  at  X,  then,  as  you  hold  the 
233 


234    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

key  to  the  other  door, — I  think  you  said  the 
convent  dog  did  not  raise  any  disturbance? 
Pardon  a  personal  question,  but  do  you  ever 
walk  in  your  sleep  ?" 

The  priest  looked  bewildered. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  to  do,"  Hotchkiss  said 
cheerfully,  leaning  forward,  "look  around  a  lit 
tle  yourself  before  you  call  in  the  police.  Som 
nambulism  is  a  queer  thing.  It's  a  question 
whether  we  are  most  ourselves  sleeping  or  wak 
ing.  Ever  think  of  that?  Live  a  saintly  life 
all  day,  prayers  and  matins  and  all  that,  and  the 
subconscious  mind  hikes  you  out  of  bed  at  night 
to  steal  undermuslins !  Subliminal  theft,  so  to 
speak.  Better  examine  the  roof." 

I  dozed  again.  When  I  wakened  Hotchkiss 
sat  alone,  and  the  priest,  from  a  corner,  was 
staring  at  him  dazedly,  over  his  breviary. 

It  was  raining  when  we  reached  Cresson,  a 
'  wind-driven  rain  that  had  forced  the  agent  at 
the  news-stand  to  close  himself  in,  and  that  beat 
back  from  the  rails  in  parallel  lines  of  white 
spray.  As  he  went  up  the  main  street,  Hotch-, 
kiss  was  cheerfully  oblivious  of  the  weather,  of 


A   NIGHT    AT    THE    LAURELS     235 

the  threatening  dusk,  of  our  generally  draggled 
condition.  My  draggled  condition,  I  should 
say,  for  he  improved  every  moment, — his  eyes 
brighter,  his  ruddy  face  ruddier,  his  collar  i 
newer  and  glossier.  Sometime,  when  it  does  not 
encircle  the  little  man's  neck,  I  shall  test  that 
collar  with  a  match. 

I  was  growing  steadily  more  depressed:  I 
loathed  my  errand  and  its  necessity.  I  had  al 
ways  held  that  a  man  who  played  the  spy  on  a 
woman  was  beneath  contempt.  Then.  I  admit  I 
was  afraid  of  what  I  might  learn.  For  a  time, 
however,  this  promised  to  be  a  negligible  quan 
tity.  The  streets  of  the  straggling  little  moun 
tain  town  had  been  clean-washed  of  humanity  by 
the  downpour.  Windows  and  doors  were  inhos 
pitably  shut,  and  from  around  an  occasional 
drawn  shade  came  narrow  strips  of  light  that 
merely  emphasized  our  gloom.  When  Hotch- 
kiss'  umbrella  turned  inside  out,  I  stopped. 

"I  don't  know  where  you  are  going,"  I 
snarled,  "and  I  don't  care.  But  I'm  going  to 
get  under  cover  inside  of  ten  seconds.  I'm  not 
amphibious." 


286    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

I  ducked  into  the  next  shelter,  which  happened 
to  be  the  yawning  entrance  to  a  livery  stable, 
and  shook  myself,  dog  fashion.  Hotchkiss 
wiped  his  collar  with  his  handkerchief.  It 
emerged  gleaming  and  unwilted. 

"This  will  do  as  well  as  any  place,"  he  said, 
raising  his  voice  above  the  rattle  of  the  rain. 
"Got  to  make  a  beginning." 

I  sat  down  on  the  usual  chair  without  a  back, 
just  inside  the  door,  and  stared  out  at  the  dark 
ening  street.  The  whole  affair  had  an  air  of  un 
reality.  Now  that  I  was  there,  I  doubled  the 
necessity,  or  the  value,  of  the  journey.  I  was 
wet  and  uncomfortable.  Around  me,  with  Cres- 
son  as  a  center,  stretched  an  irregular  ci.cum- 
ference  of  mountain,  with  possibly  a  ten -mile 
radius,  and  in  it  I  was  to  find  the  resident  of 
a  woman  whose  first  name  I  did  not  know,  and  a 

man  who,  so  far,  had  been  a  purely  chimerical 
< 
person. 

Hotchkiss  had  penetrated  the  steaming  in 
terior  of  the  care,  and  now  his  voice,  punctu 
ated  by  the  occasional  thud  of  horses'  hoofs, 
came  to  me. 


"Something  light  will  do,"  he  was  saying. 
**A  runabout,  perhaps."  He  came  forward  rub 
bing  his  hands,  followed  by  a  thin  man  in  over 
alls.  "Mr.  Peck  says,"  he  began, — "this  is  Mr.( 
Peck  of  Peck  and  Peck, — says  that  the  place  we 
are  looking  for  is  about  seven  miles  from  the 
town.  It's  clearing,  isn't  it  ?" 

"It  is  not,"  I  returned  savagely.  ""And  we 
don't  want  a  runabout,  Mr.  Peck.  What  we  re 
quire  is  an  hermetically  sealed  diving  suit.  I 
suppose  there  isn't  a  machine  to  be  had?"  Mr. 
Peck  gazed  at  me  in  silence:  machine  to  him 
meant  other  things  than  motors.  "Automobile," 
I  supplemented.  His  face  cleared. 

"None  but  private  affairs.  I  can  give  you  a 
good  buggy  with  a  rubber  apron.  Mike,  is  the 
doctor's  horse  in?" 

I  am  still  uncertain  as  to  whether  the  raw- 
boned  roan  we  took  out  that  night  over  the 
mountains  was  the  doctor's  horse  or  not.  If  it 
was,  the  doctor  may  be  a  good  doctor,  but  he 
doesn't  know  anything  about  a  horse.  And  fur 
thermore,  I  hope  he  didn't  need  the  beast  that 
miserablf;  evening. 


238    THE   MAN   IN   LOWEQ    TEN 

While  they  harnessed  the  horse,  Hotchkisa 
told  me  what  he  had  learned. 

"Six  Curtises  in  the  town  and  vicinity,"  he 
[said.  "Sort  of  family  name  around  here.  One 
of  them  is  telegraph  operator  at  the  station. 
Person  we  are  looking  for  is — was — a  wealthy 
widow  with  a  brother — named  Sullivan!  Both 
supposed  to  have  been  killed  on  the  Flier." 

"Her  brother,"  I  repeated  stupidly. 

"You  see,"  Hotchkiss  went  on,  "three  people, 
in  one  party,  took  the  train  here  that  night, 
Miss  West,  Mrs.  Curtis  and  Sullivan.  The  two 
women  had  the  drawing-room,  Sullivan  had 
lower  seven.  What  we  want  to  find  out  is  just 
who  these  people  were,  where  they  came  from, 
if  Bronson  knew  them,  and  how  Miss  West  be 
came  entangled  with  them.  She  may  have  mar 
ried  Sullivan,  for  one  thing." 

I  fell  into  gloom  after  that.  The  roan  was 
led  unwillingly  into  the  weather,  Hotchkiss  and 
I  in  eclipse  behind  the  blanket.  The  liveryman 
stood  in  the  doorway  and  called  directions  to  us. 
"You  can't  miss  it,"  he  finished.  "Got  the  name 
over  the  gate  anyhow,  'The  Laurels.'  The 


A   NIGHT   AT   THE   LAURELS     239 

servants  are  still  there:  leastways,  we  didn't 
bring  them  down."  He  even  took  a  step  into  the 
rain  as  Hotchkiss  picked  up  the  lines.  "If 
you're  going  to  settle  the  estate,"  he  bawled, 
"don't  forget  us,  Peck  and  Peck.  A  half -bushel 
of  name  and  a  bushel  of  service." 

Hotchkiss  could  not  drive.  Born  a  clerk,  he 
guided  the  roan  much  as  he  would  drive  a  bad 
pen.  And  the  roan  spattered  through  puddles 
and  splashed  ink — mud,  that  is — until  I  was  in 
a  frenzy  of  irritation. 

"What  are  we  going  to  say  when  we  get 
there?"  I  asked  after  I  had  finally  taken  the 
reins  in  my  one  useful  hand.  "Get  out  there  at 
midnight  and  tell  the  servants  we  have  come  to 
ask  a  few  questions  about  the  family?  It's  an 
idiotic  trip  anyhow;  I  wish  I  had  stayed  at 
home." 

The  roan  fell  just  then,  and  we  had  to  crawl 
out  and  help  him  up.  By  the  time  we  had 
partly  unharnessed  him  our  matches  were  gone, 
and  the  small  bicycle  lamp  on  the  buggy  was 
wavering  only  too  certainly.  We  were  cov 
ered  with  mud,  panting  with  exertion,  and  even 


240    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

Hotchkiss  showed  a  disposition  to  be  surly.  17tfl 
rain,  which  had  lessened  for  a  time,  came  QJJ 
again,  the  lightning  flashes  doing  more  than 
anything  else  to  reveal  our  isolated  position. 

Another  mile  saw  us,  if  possible,  mare  de 
spondent.  The  water  in  our  clothes  had  had 
time  to  penetrate:  the  roan  had  sprained  his 
shoulder,  and  drew  us  along  in  a  series  of  con 
vulsive  jerks.  And  then  through  the  rain-spat 
tered  window  of  the  blanket,  I  saw  p.  light.  It 
was  a  small  light,  rather  yellow,  and  it  lasted 
perhaps  thirty  seconds.  Hotchkiss  missed  it, 
and  was  inclined  to  doubt  me.  But  in  a  couple 
of  minutes  the  roan  hobbled  to  the  side  of  the 
road  and  stopped,  and  I  made  out  a  break  in  the 
pines  and  an  arched  gate. 

It  was  a  small  gate,  too  narrow  for  the  buggy. 
I  pulled  the  horse  into  as  much  shelter  as  possi 
ble  under  the  trees,  and  we  got  out.  Hotchkiss 
tied  the  beast  and  we  left  him  there,  head  down 
against  the  driving  rain,  drooping  and  d&- 
jected.  Then  we  went  toward  the  house. 

It  was  a  long  walk.  The  path  bent  an3 
twisted,  amd  now  and  then  we  lost  it.  We  were 


A   NIGHTJ  AT  THE   LAURELS 

climbing  as  we  went.  Oddly  there  were  no  lighti 
ahead,  although  it  was  only  ten  o'clock, — not 
later.  Hotchkiss  kept  a  little  ahead  of  me, 
knocking  into  trees  now  and  then,  but  finding 
the  path  in  half  the  time  I  should  have  taken. 
Once,  as  I  felt  my  way  around  a  tree  in  the 
blackness,  I  put  my  hand  unexpectedly  on  his 
shoulder,  and  felt  a  shudder  go  down  my  back. 

"What  do  you  expect  me  to  do  ?"  he  protested, 
when  I  remonstrated.  "Hang  out  a  red  lan 
tern?  What  was  that?  Listen." 

We  both  stood  peering  into  the  gloom.  The 
sharp  patter  of  the  rain  on  leaves  had  ceased, 
and  from  just  ahead  there  came  back  to  us  the 
stealthy  padding  of  feet  in  wet  soil.  My  hand 
closed  on  Hotchkiss'  shoulder,  and  we  listened 
together,  warily.  The  steps  were  close  by,  un 
mistakable.  The  next  flash  of  lightning  showed 
nothing  moving :  the  house  was  in  full  view  now, 
dark  and  uninviting,  looming  huge  above  a  ter 
race,  with  an  Italian  garden  at  the  side.  Then 
the  blackness  again.  Somebody's  teeth  were 
chattering :  I  accused  Hotchkiss  but  he  denied  ife. 

"Although  I'm  not  very  comfortable,  I'll  ad- 


THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

mit,"  he  confessed;  "there  was  something 
breathing  right  at  my  elbow  here  a  moment 
ago." 

"Nonsense !"  I  took  his  elbow  and  steered 
him  in  what  I  made  out  to  be  the  direction  of  the 
steps  of  the  Italian  garden.  "I  saw  a  deer  just 
ahead  by  the  last  flash ;  that's  what  you  heard. 
By  Jove,  I  hear  wheels." 

We  paused  to  listen  and  Hotchkiss  put  his 
hand  on  something  close  to  us.  "Here's  your 
deer,"  he  said.  "Bronze." 

As  we  neared  the  house  the  sense  of  surveil 
lance  we  had  had  in  the  park  gradually  left  us. 
Stumbling  over  flower  beds,  running  afoul  of  a 
sun-dial,  groping  our  way  savagely  along 
hedges  and  thorny  banks,  we  reached  the  steps 
finally  and  climbed  the  terrace. 

It  was  then  that  Hotchkiss  fell  over  one  of 
the  two  stone  urns  which,  with  tall  boxwood  trees 
in  them,  mounted  guard  at  each  side  of  the  door. 
He  didn't  make  any  attempt  to  get  up.  He  sat 
in  a  puddle  on  the  brick  floor  of  the  terrace  and 
clutched  his  leg  and  swore  softly  in  Government 
English. 


A   NIGHT    AT    THE    LAURELS 

The  occasional  relief  of  the  lightning  was 
gone.  I  could  not  see  an  outline  of  the  house  be 
fore  me.  We  had  no  matches,  and  an  instant's 
investigation  showed  that  the  windows  were 
boarded  and  the  house  closed.  Hotchkiss,  still 
recumbent,  was  ascertaining  the  damage,  ten 
derly  peeling  down  his  stocking. 

"Upon  my  soul,"  he  said  finally,  "I  don't 
know  whether  this  moisture  is  blood  or  rain.  I 
think  I've  broken  a  bone." 

"Blood  is  thicker  than  water,"  I  suggested. 
"Is  it  sticky?  See  if  you  can  move  your  toes." 

There  was  a  pause:  Hotchkiss  moved  his 
toes.  By  that  time  I  had  found  a  knocker  and 
was  making  the  night  hideous.  But  there  was 
no  response  save  the  wind  that  blew  sodden 
leaves  derisively  in  our  faces.  Once  Hotchkiss 
declared  he  heard  a  window-sash  lifted,  but  re 
newed  violence  with  the  knocker  produced  no 
effect. 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  do,"  I  said  finally. 
"I'll  go  back  and  try  to  bring  the  buggy  up  for 
you.  You  can't  walk,  can  you?" 

Hotchkiss  sat  back  in  his  puddle  and  said  he 


THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

didn't  think  he  could  stir,  but  for  me  to  go  back 
to  town  and  leave  him,  that  he  didn't  have  any 
family  dependent  on  him,  and  that  If  he  was 
going  to  have  pneumonia  he  had  probably  got  it 
already.  I  left  him  there,  and  started  back  to 
get  the  horse. 

If  possible,  it  was  worse  than  before.  There 
was  no  lightning,  and  only  by  a  miracle  did  I 
find  the  little  gate  again.  I  drew  a  long  breath 
of  relief,  followed  by  another,  equally  long,  of 
dismay.  For  I  had  found  the  hitching  strap  and 
there  was  nothing  at  the  end  of  it !  In  a  lull  of 
the  wind  I  seemed  to  hear,  far  off,  the  eager  thud 
of  stable-bound  feet.  So  for  the  second  time  I 
climbed  the  slope  to  the  Laurels,  and  on  the  way 
I  thought  of  many  things  to  say. 

I  struck  the  house  at  a  new  angle,  for  I  foun3 
a  veranda,  destitute  of  chairs  and  furnishings, 
but  dry  and  evidently  roofed.  It  was  better 
than  the  terrace,  and  so,  by  groping  along  the 
wall,  I  tried  to  make  my  way  to  Hotchkiss.  That 
was  how  I  found  the  open  window.  I  had  passed 
perhaps  six,  all  closed,  and  to  have  my  hand 
grope  for  the  next  one,  and  to  find  instead  the 


A   NIGHT   AT   THE   LAURELS     245 

soft  drapery  of  an  inner  curtain,  was  startling, 
to  say  the  least. 

I  found  Hotchldss  at  last  around  an  angle  of 
the  stone  wall,  and  told  him  that  the  horse  was 
gone.  He  was  disconcerted,  but  not  abased; 
maintaining  that  it  was  a  new  kind*  of  knot  that 
couldn't  slip  and  that  the  horse  must  have 
chewed  the  halter  through!  He  was  less  en 
thusiastic  than  I  had  expected  about  the  window. 

*'It  looks  uncommonly  like  a  trap,"  he  said. 
"I  tell  you  there  was  some  one  in  the  park  be 
low  when  we  were  coming  up.  Man  has  a  sixth 
sense  that  scientists  ignore — a  sense  of  the  near 
ness  of  things.  And  all  the  time  you  have  been 
gone,  some  one  has  been  watching  me." 

"Couldn't  see  you,"  I  maintained;  "I  can't 
see  you  now.  And  your  sense  of  contiguitj 
didn't  tell  you  about  that  flower  crock." 

In  the  end,  of  course,  he  consented  to  go  with 
I  me.  He  was  very  lame,  and  I  helped  him  around 
to  the  open  window.  He  was  full  of  moral 
courage,  the  little  man :  it  was  only  the  physical 
in  him  that  quailed.  And  as  we  groped  along, 
he  insisted  o*  going  through  the  window  first. 


1*46    THE    MAN    IN   LOWER    TEN 

"If  it  is  a  trap,"  he  whispered,  "I  have  two 
arms  to  your  one,  and,  besides,  as  I  said  before, 
life  holds  much  for  you.  As  for  me,  the  govern 
ment  would  merely  lose  an  indifferent  employee."  I 

When  he  found  I  was  going  first  he  was 
rather  hurt,  but  I  did  not  wait  for  his  protests. 
I  swung  my  feet  over  the  sill  and  dropped.  I 
made  a  clutch  at  the  window-frame  with  my 
good  hand  when  I  found  no  floor  under  my  feet, 
but  I  was  too  late.  I  dropped  probably  ten  feet 
and  landed  with  a  crash  that  seemed  to  split  my 
ear-drums.  I  was  thoroughly  shaken,  but  in 
some  miraculous  way  the  bandaged  arm  had  es 
caped  injury. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,"  Hotchkiss  was  calling 
from  above,  "have  you  broken  your  back?" 

"No,"  I  returned,  as  steadily  as  I  could, 
*'merely  driven  it  up  through  my  skull.  This 
is  a  staircase.  I'm  coming  up  to  open  another 
window." 

It  was  eerie  work,  but  I  accomplished  it  final 
ly,  discovering,  not  without  mishap,  a  room 
filled  with  more  tables  than  I  had  ever  dreamed 
of,  tables  that  seemed  to  waylay  and  strike  al 


A   NIGHT    AT   THE    LAURELS     247 

me.  When  I  had  got  a  window  open,  Hotchkiss 
crawled  through,  and  we  were  at  last  under 
shelter. 

Our  first  thought  was  for  a  light.  The  same 
laborious  investigation  that  had  landed  us  where  • 
we  were,  revealed  that  the  house  was  lighted  by 
electricity,  and  that  the  plant  was  not  in  opera 
tion.  By  accident  I  stumbled  across  a  tabouret 
with  smoking  materials,  and  found  a  half  dozen 
matches.  The  first  one  showed  us  the  magnitude 
of  the  room  we  stood  in,  and  revealed  also  a  brass 
candle-stick  by  the  open  fireplace,  a  candle-stick 
almost  four  feet  high,  supporting  a  candle  of 
similar  colossal  proportions.  It  was  Hotchkiss 
who  discovered  that  it  had  been  recently  lighted. 
He  held  the  match  to  it  and  peered  at  it  over  his 
glasses. 

"Within  ten  minutes,"  he  announced  impres 
sively,  "this  candle  has  been  burning.     Look  at 
'  the  wax !    And  the  wick !    Both  soft." 

"Perhaps  it's  the  damp  weather,"  I  ventured, 
moving  a  little  nearer  to  the  circle  of  light.  A 
gust  of  wind  came  in  just  then,  and  the  flame 
turned  over  on  its  side  and  threatened  demise. 


THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

The*t*  was  something  almost  ridiculous  in  the 
haste  with  which  we  put  down  the  window  and 
nursed  the  flicker  to  life. 

The  peculiarly  ghost-like  appearance  of  the 
room  added  to  the  uncanniness  of  the  situation. 
The  furniture  was  swathed  in  white  covers  for 
the  winter ;  even  the  pictures  wore  shrouds.  And 
in  a  niche  between  two  windows  a  bust  on  a  ped 
estal,  {similarly  wrapped,  one  arm  extended  under 
Us  winding  sheet,  made  a  most  life-like  ghost,  if 
any  g-liost  can  be  life-like. 

In  i'lie  light  of  the  candle  we  surveyed  each 
other,  wnd  we  were  objects  for  mirth.  Hotchkiss 
was  taldng  off  his  sodden  shoes  and  preparing 
to  make  himself  comfortable,  while  I  hung  mj 
muddy  raincoat  over  the  ghost  in  the  corner. 
Thus  h/ibited,  he  presented  a  rakish  but  dis 
tinctly  more  comfortable  appearance. 

"When  these  people  built,"  Hotchkiss  said, 
surveying  the  huge  dimensions  of  the  room, 
"they  must  have  bought  a  mountain  and  built  all 
over  it.  What  a  room !" 

It  seemed  to  be  a  living-room,  although 
Hbtchkiss  remarked  that  it  was  much  more  like 


A   NIGHT   AT   THE   LAURELS    249 

a  dead  one.  It  was  probably  fifty  feet  long  and 
twenty-five  feet  wide.  It  was  very  high,  too, 
with  a  domed  ceiling,  and  a  gallery  ran  around 
the  entire  room,  about  fifteen  feet  above  the 
floor.  The  candle  light  did  not  penetrate  be 
yond  the  dim  outlines  of  the  gallery  rail,  but 
I  fancied  the  wall  there  hung  with  smaller  pic 
tures. 

Hotchkiss  had  discovered  a  fire  laid  in  the 
enormous  fireplace,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were 
steaming  before  a  cheerful  blaze.  Within  the 
radius  of  its  light  and  heat,  we  were  comfortable 
again.  But  the  brightness  merely  emphasized 
the  gloom  of  the  ghostly  corners.  We  talked 
in  subdued  tones,  and  I  smoked  a  box  of  Russian 
cigarettes  which  I  found  in  a  table  drawer.  We 
had  decided  to  stay  all  night,  there  being  noth 
ing  else  to  do.  I  suggested  a  game  of  double- 
dummy  bridge,  but  did  not  urge  it  when  my 
companion  asked  me  if  it  resembled  euchre. 
Gradually,  as  the  ecclesiastical  candle  paled  in 
the  firelight,  we  grew  drowsy.  I  drew  a  divan 
into  the  cheerful  area,  and  stretched  myself  out 
for  sleep.  Hotchkiss,  who  said  the  pain  in  his 


S50    THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

leg  made  him  wakeful,  sat  wide-eyed  by  the  fire, 
smoking  a  pipe. 

I  have  no  idea  how  much  time  had  passed 
when  something  threw  itself  violently  on  mj 
chest.  I  roused  with  a  start  and  leaped  to  my 
feet,  and  a  large  Angora  cat  fell  with  a  thump 
to  the  floor.  The  fire  was  still  bright,  and 
there  was  an  odor  of  scorched  leather  through 
the  room,  from  Hotchkiss'  shoes.  The  little  de 
tective  was  sound  asleep,  his  dead  pipe  in  his 
fingers.  The  cat  sat  back  on  its  haunches  and 
wailed. 

The  curtain  at  the  door  into  the  hallway  bel 
lied  slowly  out  into  th.  room  and  fell  again.  The 
cat  looked  toward  it  and  opened  its  mouth  for 
another  howl.  I  thrust  at  it  with  my  foot,  but 
it  refused  to  move.  Hotchkiss  stirred  uneasily, 
and  his  pipe  clattered  to  the  floor. 

The  cat  was  standing  at  my  feet,  staring  be 
hind  me.  Apparently  it  was  following  with  it§ 
eyes,  an  object  unseen  to  me,  that  moved  behind 
me.  •  The  tip  of  its  tail  waved  threateningly, 
but  when  I  wheeled  I  saw  nothing. 

I  took  the  candle  and  made  a  circuit  of  the 


room.  Behind  the  curtain  that  had  moved  the 
door  was  securely  closed.  The  windows  were 
shut  and  locked,  and  everywhere  the  silence  was 
absolute.  The  cat  followed  me  majestically.  1 
stooped  and  stroked  its  head,  but  it  persisted  in 
its  uncanny  watching  of  the  corners  of  the 
room. 

When  I  went  back  to  my  divan,  after  putting 
a  fresh  log  on  the  fire,  I  was  reassured.  I  took 
the  precaution,  and  smiled  at  myself  for  doing 
it,  to  put  the  fire  tongs  within  reach  of  my 
hand.  But  the  cat  would  not  let  me  sleep.  After 
a  time  I  decided  that  it  wanted  water,  and  I 
started  out  in  search  of  some,  carrying  the  can 
dle  without  the  stand.  I  wandered  through  sev 
eral  rooms,  all  closed  and  dismantled,  before  I 
found  a  small  lavatory  opening  off  a  billiard 
room.  The  cat  lapped  steadily,  and  I  filled  a 
glass  to  take  back  with  me.  The  candle  flick 
ered  in  a  sickly  fashion  that  threatened  to  leave 
me  there  lost  in  the  wanderings  of  the  many  hall 
ways,  and  from  somewhere  there  came  an  occa 
sional  violent  puff  of  wind.  The  cat  stuck  by 
my  feet,  with  the  hair  on  its  back  raised  mena- 


252    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

cingly.  I  don't  like  cats;  there  is  something 
psychic  about  them. 

Hotchkiss  was  still  asleep  when  I  got  back  to 
the  big  room.  I  moved  his  boots  back  from  the 
fire,  and  trimmed  the  candle.  Then,  with  sleep 
gone  from  me,  I  lay  back  on  my  divan  and  re 
flected  on  many  things :  on  my  idiocy  in  coming ; 
on  Alison  West,  and  the  fact  that  only  a  week 
before  she  had  been  a  guest  in  this  very  house ; 
on  Richey  and  the  constraint  that  had  come  be 
tween  us.  From  that  I  drifted  back  to  Alison, 
and  to  the  barrier  my  comparative  poverty 
would  be. 

The  emptiness,  the  stillness  were  oppressive. 
Once  I  heard  footsteps  coming,  rhythmical  steps 
that  neither  hurried  nor  dragged,  and  seemed  to 
mount  endless  staircases  without  coming  any 
closer.  I  realized  finally  that  I  had  not  quite 
turned  off  the  tap,  and  that  the  lavatory,  which 
I  had  circled  to  reach,  must  be  quite  close. 

The  cat  lay  by  the  fire,  its  nose  on  its  folded 
paws,  content  in  the  warmth  and  companion 
ship.  I  watched  it  idly.  Now  and  then  the 
green  wood  hissed  in  the  fire,  but  the  cat  never 


batted  an  eye.  Through  an  unshuttered  window 
the  lightning  flashed.  Suddenly  the  cat  looked 
up.  It  lifted  its  head  and  stared  directly  at  the, 
gallery  above.  Then  it  blinked,  and  stared 
again.  I  was  amused.  Not  until  it  had  got 
up  on  its  feet,  eyes  still  riveted  on  the  balcony, 
tail  waving  at  the  tip,  the  hair  on  its  back  a 
bristling  brush,  did  I  glance  casually  over  my 
head. 

From  among  the  shadows  a  face  gazed  down 
at  me,  a  face  that  seemed  a  fitting  tenant  of  the 
ghostly  room  below.  I  saw  it  as  plainly  as  I 
might  see  my  own  face  in  a  mirror.  While  I 
stared  at  it  with  horrified  eyes,  the  apparition 
faded.  The  rail  was  there,  the  Bokhara  rug 
still  swung  from  it,  but  the  gallery  was  empty. 

The  cat  threw  back  its  head  and  wailed. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

HIS   WIFE'S   FATHER 

1  JUMPED  up  and  seized  the  fire  tongs.  The 
cat's  wail  had  roused  Hotchkiss,  who  was 
wide-awake  at  once.  He  took  in  my  offensive 
attitude,  the  tongs,  the  direction  of  my  gaze,  and 
needed  nothing  more.  As  he  picked  up  the  can 
dle  and  darted  out  into  the  hall,  I  followed  him. 
He  made  directly  for  the  staircase,  and  part 
way  up  he  turned  off  to  the  right  through  a 
small  door.  We  were  on  the  gallery  itself;  be- 
iow  us  the  fire  gleamed  cheerfully,  the  cat  was 
not  in  sight.  There  was  no  sign  of  my  ghostly 
visitant,  but  as  we  stood  there  the  Bokhara  rug, 
without  warning,  slid  over  the  railing  and  fell 
to  the  floor  below. 

"Man  or  woman?"  Hotchkiss  inquired  in  his 
most  professional  tone. 

"Neither — that  is,  I  don't  know.  I  didn't  no- 
254 


HIS   WIFE'S   FATHER  256 

tice  anything  but  the  eyes,"  I  muttered.  "They 
were  looking  a  hole  in  me.  If  you'd  seen  that  cat 
you  would  realize  my  state  of  mind.  That  was  a 
traditional  graveyard  yowl." 

"I  don't  think  you  saw  anything  at  all,"  he 
lied  cheerfully.  "You  dozed  off,  and  the  rest  is 
the  natural  result  of  a  meal  on  a  buffet  car." 

Nevertheless,  he  examined  the  Bokhara  care 
fully  when  we  went  down,  and  when  I  finally  went 
to  sleep  he  was  reading  the  only  book  in  sight — 
Elw/ell  on  Bridge.  The  first  rays  of  daylight 
were  coming  mistily  into  the  room  when  he 
roused  me.  He  had  his  finger  on  his  lips,  and  he 
whispered  sibilantly  while  I  tried  to  draw  on  my 
distorted  boots. 

"I  think  we  have  him,"  he  said  triumphantly. 
"I've  been  looking  around  some,  and  I  can  tell 
you  this  much.  Just  before  we  came  in  through 
the  window  last  night,  another  man  came.  Only 
— he  did  not  drop,  as  you  did.  He  swung  over 
to  the  stair  railing,  and  then  down.  The  rail  is 
scratched.  He  was  long  enough  ahead  of  us  to 
go  into  the  dining-room  and  get  a  decanter  out 
of  the  sideboard.  He  poured  out  the  liquor  into 


256    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

a  glass,  left  the  decanter  there,  and  took  the 
whisky  into  the  library  across  the  hall.  Then — 
he  broke  into  a  desk,  using  a  paper  knife  for  a 
jimmy." 

"Good  Lord,  Hotchkiss,"  I  exclaimed;  "why, 
it  may  have  been  Sullivan  himself!  Confound 
your  theories — he's  getting  farther  away  every 
minute." 

"It  was  Sullivan,"  Hotchkiss  returned  imper- 
turbably.  "And  he  has  not  gone.  His  boots  are 
by  the  library  fire." 

"He  probably  had  a  dozen  pairs  where  he 
could  get  them,"  I  scoffed.  "And  while  you  and 
I  sat  and  slept,  the  very  man  we  want  to  get  our 
hands  on  leered  at  us  over  that  railing." 

"Softly,  softly,  my  friend,"  Hotchkiss  said, 
as  I  stamped  into  my  other  shoe.  "I  did  not  say 
he  was  gone.  Don't  jump  at  conclusions.  It  is 
fatal  to  reasoning.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  didn't 
relish  a  night  on  the  mountains  any  more  than 
we  did.  After  he  had  unintentionally  frightened 
you  almost  into  paralysis,  what  would  my  gen 
tleman  naturally  do?  Go  out  in  the  storm  again? 
Not  if  I  know  the  Alice-sit-by-the-fire  type.  He 


HIS    WIFE'S    FATHER  257 

went  up-stairs,  well  up  near  the  roof,  locked  him 
self  in  and  went  to  bed." 

"And  he  is  there  now?" 

"He  is  there  now." 

We  had  no  weapons.  I  am  aware  that  the  tra 
ditional  hero  is  always  armed,  and  that  Hotch- 
kiss  as  the  low  comedian  should  have  had  a 
revolver  that  missed  fire.  As  a  fact,  we  had 
nothing  of  the  sort.  Hotchldss  carried  the  fire 
tongs,  but  my  sense  of  humor  was  too  strong 
for  me ;  I  declined  the  poker. 

1 ~^~-— 

we  want  is  a  little  peaceable  conversation 
him,"  I  demurred.  "We  can't  brain  him 
irst  and  converse  with  him  afterward.  And  any 
how,  while  I  can't  put  my  finger  on  the  place,  I 
think  your  theory  is  weak.  If  he  wouldn't  run 
a  hundred  miles  through  fire  and  water  to  get 
away  from  us,  then  he  is  not  the  man  we  want." 
Hotchkiss,  however,  was  certain.  He  had 
found  the  room  and  listened  outside  the  door  to 
the  sleeper's  heavy  breathing,  and  so  we  climbed 
past  luxurious  suites,  revealed  in  the  deepening 
daylight,  past  long  vistas  of  hall  and  boudoir. 
And  we  were  both  badly  winded  when  we  got 


258    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

there.  It  was  a  tower  room,  reached  by  narrow 
stairs,  and  well  above  the  roof  level.  Hotchkiss 
was  glowing. 

"It  is  partly  good  luck,  but  not  all,"  he  pant-^ 
ed  in  a  whisper.  "If  we  had  persisted  in  the 
search  last  night,  he  would  have  taken  alarm  and 
fled.  Now — we  have  him.  Are  you  ready?" 

He  gave  a  mighty  rap  at  the  door  with  the  fire 
tongs,  and  stood  expectant.  Certainly  he  was 
right ;  some  one  moved  within. 

"Hello!  Hello  there!"  Hotchkiss  bawled. 
"You  might  as  well  come  out.  We  won't  hurt 
you,  if  you'll  come  peaceably." 

"Tell  him  we  represent  the  law,"  I  prompted. 
"That's  the  customary  thing,  you  know." 

But  at  that  moment  a  bullet  came  squarely 
through  the  door  and  flattened  itself  with  a 
sharp  pst  against  the  wall  of  the  tower  staircase. 
We  ducked  unanimously,  dropped  back  out  of 
range,  and  Hotchkiss  retaliated  with  a  spirited 
bang  at  the  door  with  the  tongs.  This  brought 
another  bullet.  It  was  a  ridiculous  situation. 
Under  the  circumstances,  no  doubt,  we  should 
have  retired,  at  least  until  we  had  armed  our- 


HIS   WIFE'S   FATHER  259 

selves,  but  Hotchkiss  had  no  end  of  fighting 
spirit,  and  as  for  me,  my  blood  was  up. 

"Break  the  lock,"  I  suggested,  and  Hotchkiss, 
standing  at  the  side,  out  of  range,  retaliated  for 
every  bullet  by  a  smashing  blow  with  the  tongs. 
The  shots  ceased  after  a  half  dozen,  and  the 
door  was  giving,  slowly.  One  of  us  on  each  side 
of  the  door,  we  were  ready  for  almost  any  kind 
of  desperate  resistance.  As  it  swung  open  Hotch 
kiss  poised  the  tongs ;  I  stood,  bent  forward,  my 
arnydfawiTBack  for  a  blow.  * 

/Nothing  happened. 

There  was  not  a  sound.  Finally,  at  the  rislc 
of  losing  an  eye  which  I  justly  value,  I  peered 
around  and  into  the  room.  There  was  no  desper 
ado  there:  only  a  fresh-faced,  trembling-lipped 
servant,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  with  a 
quilt  around  her  shoulders  and  the  empty  re 
volver  at  her  feet. 

We  were  victorious,  but  no  conquered  army 
ever  beat  such  a  retreat  as  ours  down  the  tower 
stairs  and  into  the  refuge  of  the  living-room. 
There,  with  the  door  closed,  sprawled  on  the 
divan,  I  went  from  one  spasm  of  mirth  into  an- 


260    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

other,  becoming  sane  at  intervals,  and  suffering 
relapse  again  every  time  I  saw  Hotchkiss'  dis 
gruntled  countenance.  He  was  pacing  the  room, 
the  tongs  still  in  his  hand,  his  mouth  pursed 
with  irritation.  Finally  he  stopped  in  front  of 
me  and  compelled  my  attention. 

"When  you  have  finished  cackling,"  he  said 
with  dignity,  "I  wish  to  justify  my  position.  Do 
you  think  the — er — young  woman  up-stairs  put 
a  pair  of  number  eight  boots  to  dry  in  the  li 
brary  last  night?  Do  you  think  she  poured  the 
whisky  out  of  that  decanter  ?" 

"They  have  been  known  to  do  it,"  I  put  in, 
but  his  eye  silenced  me. 

"Moreover,  if  she  had  been  the  person  who 
peered  at  you  over  the  gallery  railing  last  night, 
don't  you  suppose,  with  her — er — belligerent 
disposition,  she  could  have  filled  you  as  full  of 
lead  as  a  window  weight  ?" 

"I  do,"  I  assented.  "It  wasn't  Alice-sit-by- 
the-fire.  I  grant  you  that.  Then  who  was  it?" 

Hotchkiss  felt  certain  that  it  had  been  Sul 
livan,  but  I  was  not  so  sure.  Why  would  he  have 
crawled  like  a  thief  into  his  own  house?  If  he 


HIS   WIFE'S   FATHER 

had  crossed  the  park,  as  seemed  probable,  when 
we  did,  he  had  not  made  any  attempt  to  use  the 
knocker.  I  gave  it  up  finally,  and  made  an  ef 
fort  to  conciliate  the  young  woman  in  the  tower. 

We  had  heard  no  sound  since  our  spectacular 
entrance  into  her  room.  I  was  distinctly  uncom 
fortable  as,  alone  this  time,  I  climbed  to  the 
tower  staircase.  Reasoning  from  before,  she 
would  probably  throw  a  chair  at  me.  I  stopped 
at  the  fooi_o£the  staircase  and  called. 

'^Hello  up  there,"  I  said,  in  as  debonnair  a 
manner  as  I  could  summon.  "Good  morning. 
Wle  geJit  es  bei  ihnen?" 

No  reply. 

"Bon  jour,  mademoiselle,"  I  tried  again.  This 
time  there  was  a  movement  of  some  sort  from 
above,  but  nothing  fell  on  me. 

"I — we  want  to  apologize  for  rousing  you  so 
— er — unexpectedly  this  morning,"  I  went  on. 
"The  fact  is,  we  wanted  to  talk  to  you,  and  you 
— you  were  hard  to  waken.  We  are  travelers, 
lost  in  your  mountains,  and  we  crave  a  breakfast 
and  an  audience." 

She  came  to  the  door  then.    I  could  feel  that 


262    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

she  was  investigating  the  top  of  my  head  from 
above.  "Is  Mr.  Sullivan  with  you?"  she  asked. 
It  was  the  first  word  from  her,  and  she  was  not 
sure  of  her  voice. 

"No.  We  are  alone.  If  you  will  come  down 
and  look  at  us  you  will  find  us  two  perfectly 
harmless  people,  whose  horse — curses  on  him — 
departed  without  leave  last  night  and  left  us  at 
your  gate." 

She  relaxed  somewhat  then  and  came  down  a 
step  or  two.  "I  was  afraid  I  had  killed  some 
body,"  she  said.  "The  housekeeper  left  yester 
day,  and  the  other  maids  went  with  her." 

When  she  saw  that  I  was  comparatively 
young  and  lacked  the  earmarks  of  the  highway 
man,  she  was  greatly  relieved.  She  was  inclined 
to  fight  shy  of  Hotchkiss,  however,  for  some 
reason.  She  gave  us  a  breakfast  of  a  sort,  for 
there  was  little  in  the  house,  and  afterward  we 
telephoned  to  the  town  for  a  vehicle.  Whilel 
Hotchkiss  examined  scratches  and  replaced  the 
Bokhara  rug,  I  engaged  Jennie  in  conversation. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  I  asked,  "who  is  managing 
the  estate  since  Mrs.  Curtis  was  killed?" 


HIS   WIFE'S   FATHER  263 

"No  one,"  she  returned  shortly. 

"Has  —  any  member  of  the  family  been  here 
since  the  accident  ?" 

"No,  sir.  There  was  only  the  ty7Cs  and  some 
think  Mr.  Sullivan  was  killed  as  well  as  his  sis 
ter." 

"You  don't?" 

"No,"  with  conviction. 

"Why?" 

She  wheeled  on  me  with  quick  suspicion. 
ar  detective  ?"  she  demanded. 


You  told  him  to  say  you  represented  the 
law." 

"I  am  a  lawyer.  Some  of  them  misrepresent 
the  law,  but  I—" 

She  broke  in  impatiently. 

"A  sheriff's  officer?" 

"No.  Look  here,  Jennie;  I  am  all  that  I 
should  be.  You'll  have  to  believe  that.  And 
I'm  in  a  bad  position  through  no  fault  of  my 
own.  I  want  you  to  answer  some  questions.  If 
you  will  help  me,  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  you. 
Do  you  live  near  here?" 


Her  chin  quivered.  It  was  the  first  sign  of 
weakness  she  had  shown. 

"My  home  is  in  Pittsburg,"  she  said,  "and  I 
haven't  enough  money  to  get  there.  They  hadn't 
paid  any  wages  for  two  months.  They  didn't 
pay  anybody." 

"Very  well,"  I  returned.  "I'll  send  you  back 
to  Pittsburg,  Pullman  included,  if  you  will  tell 
me  some  things  I  want  to  know." 

She  agreed  eagerly.  Outside  the  window 
Hotchkiss  was  bending  over,  examining  foot 
prints  in  the  drive. 

"Now.,"  I  began,  "there  has  been  a  Miss  West 
staying  here?" 

"Yes." 

"Mr.  Sullivan  was  attentive  to  her?" 

"Yes.  She  was  the  granddaughter  of  a 
wealthy  man  in  Pittsburg.  My  aunt  has  been 
in  his  family  for  twenty  years.  Mrs.  Curtis 
wanted  her  brother  to  marry  Miss  West." 

"Do  you  think  he  did  marry  her?"  I  could 
not  keep  the  excitement  out  of  my  voice. 

"No.  There  were  reasons" — she  stopped  ab 
ruptly. 


HIS    WIFE'S    FATHER  863 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  the  family?  Are 
they — were  they  New  Yorkers  ?" 

"They  came  from  somewhere  In  the  south.  I 
have  heard  Mrs.  Curtis  say  her  mother  was  a 
Cuban.  I  don't  know  much  about  them,  but  Mr. 
Sullivan  had  a  wicked  temper,  though  he  didn't 
look  it.  Folks  say  big,  light-haired  people  are 
easy  going,  but  I  don't  believe  It,  sir." 

"How  long,  was  Miss  West  here  ?" 

"Tvpoweeks." 

I  hesitated  about  further  questioning.  Criti 
cal  as  my  position  was,  I  could  not  pry  deeper 
into  lAlison  West's  affairs.  If  she  had  got  into 
the  hands  of  adventurers,  as  Sullivan  and  his 
sister  appeared  to  have  been,  she  was  safely 
away  from  them  again.  But  something  of  the 
situation  in  the  car  Ontario  was  forming  itself 
in  my  mind:  the  incident  at  the  farm-house 
lacked  only  motive  to  be  complete.  Was  Sulli 
van,  after  all,  a  rascal  or  a  criminal?  Was  the 
murderer  Sullivan  or  Mrs.  Conway?  The  lady 
or  the  tiger  again. 

Jennie  was  speaking. 

"I  hope  Miss  West  was  not  hurtP'  she  asked. 


266    THE    MAN    IN   LOWER   TEN 

"We  liked  her,  all  of  us.  She  was  not  like  Mm 
Curtis." 

I  wanted  to  say  that  she  was  not  like  anybody 
in  the  world.  Instead — "She  escaped  with  some 
bruises,"  I  said. 

She  glanced  at  my  arm.  "You  were  on  the 
train?" 

"Yes." 

She  waited  for  more  questions,  but  none  com' 
ing,  she  went  to  the  door.  Then  she  closed  it 
softly  and  came  back. 

"Mrs.  Curtis  is  dead?  You  are  sure  of  it?" 
she  asked. 

"She  was  killed  instantly,  I  believe.  The  body 
was  not  recovered.  But  I  have  reasons  for  be 
lieving  that  Mr.  Sullivan  is  living." 

"I  knew  it,"  she  said.  "I — I  think  he  was 
here  the  night  before  last.  That  is  why  I  went 
to  the  tower  room.  I  believe  he  would  kill  me  if 
he  could."  As  nearly  as  her  round  and  comely 
face  could  express  it,  Jennie's  expression  was 
tragic  at  that  moment.  I  made  a  quick  resolu 
tion,  and  acted  on  it  at  once. 

"You  are  not  entirely  frank  with  me,  Jennie," 


HIS    WIFE'S    FATHER  267 

I  protested.     "And  I  am  going  to  tell  you  more 
than  I  have.    We  are  talking  at  cross  purposes. 

"I  was  on  the  wrecked  train,  in  the  same  car 
with  Mrs.  Curtis,  Miss  West  and  Mr.  Sullivan. 
During  the  night  there  was  a  crime  committed 
In  that  car  and  Mr.  Sullivan  disappeared.  But 
he  left  behind  him  a  chain  of  circumstantial  evi 
dence  t}iat— involved  me  completely,  so  that  I 
may/ at  any  time,  be  arrested." 

Lpparently  she  did  not  comprehend  for  a  mo- 
mejit.  Then,  as  if  the  meaning  of  my  words 
had  just  dawned  on  her,  she  looked  up  and 
gasped : 

"You  mean — Mr.  Sullivan  committed  the 
crime  himself?" 

"I  think  he  did." 

"What  was  it?" 

"It  was  murder,"  I  said  deliberately. 

Her  hands  clenched  involuntarily,  and  she 
shrank  back.  "A  woman?"  She  could  scarcely 
form  her  words. 

"No,  a  man;  a  Mr.  Simon  Harrington,  of 
Pittsburgh 

Her  effort  to  retain  her  self-control  was  piti- 


868    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

ful.  Then  she  broke  down  and  cried,  her  head 
on  the  back  of  a  tall  chair. 

"It  was  my  fault,"  she  said  wretchedly,  "my 
fault.  I  should  not  have  sent  them  the  word." 

After  a  few  minutes  she  grew  quiet.  She 
seemed  to  hesitate  over  something,  and  finally 
determined  to  say  it. 

"You  will  understand  better,  sir,  when  I  say 
that  I  was  raised  in  the  Harrington  family. 
Mr.  Harrington  was  Mr.  Sullivan's  wife's 
father!" 


CHAPTER  XXV 

» 

AT  THE  STATION 

SO  it  hadjbeen  the  tiger,  not  the  lady !  Well, 
I/liad  held  to  that  theory  all  through.  Jen 
nie  suddenly  became  a  valuable  person ;  if  neces 
sary  \she  could  prove  the  connection  between  Sul 
livan  \and  the  murdered  man,  and  show  a  motive 
for  the  crime.  I  was  triumphant  when  Hotch- 
kiss  came  in.  When  the  girl  had  produced  a 
photograph  of  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  I  had  recog 
nized  the  bronze-haired  girl  of  the  train,  we  were 
both  well  satisfied — which  goes  to  prove  the 
ephemeral  nature  of  most  human  contentments. 
Jennie  either  had  nothing  more  to  say,  or 
feared  she  had  said  too  much.  She  was  evi 
dently  uneasy  before  Hotchkiss.  I  told  her  that . 
Mrs.  Sullivan  was  recovering  in  a  Baltimore  hos 
pital,  but  she  already  knew  it,  from  some  source, 
and  merely  nodded.  She  made  a  few  prepara- 
269 


270    THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

tions  for  leaving,  while  Hotchkiss  and  I  com 
pared  notes,  and  then,  with  the  cat  in  her  arms, 
she  climbed  into  the  trap  from  the  town.  I  sat 
with  her,  and  on  the  way  down  she  told  me  a 
little,  not  much. 

"If  you  see  Mrs.  Sullivan,"  she  advised,  "and 
she 'is  conscious,  she  probably  thinks  that  both 
her  husband  and  her  father  were  killed  in  the 
wreck.  She  will  be  in  a  bad  way,  sir." 

"You  mean  that  she — still  cares  about  Her 
husband?" 

The  cat  crawled  over  on  to  my  knee,  and 
rubbed  its  head  against  my  hand  invitingly. 
Jennie  stared  at  the  undulating  line  of  the 
mountain  crests,  a  colossal  surf  against  a  blue 
ocean  of  sky.  "Yes,  she  cares,"  she  said  softly. 
"Women  are  made  like  that.  They  say  they  are 
cats,  but  Peter  there  in  your  lap  wouldn't  come 
,back  and  lick  your  hand  if  you  kicked  him.  If 
— if  you  have  to  tell  her  the  truth,  be  as  gentle 
as  you  can,  sir.  She  has  been  good  to  me — 
that's  why  I  have  played  the  spy  here  all  sum 
mer.  It's  a  thankless  thing,  spying  on  people." 

"It  is  that,"  I  agreed  soberly. 


AT    THE    STATION  271 

Hotchkiss  and  I  arrived  in  Washington  late 
that  evening,  and,  rather  than  arouse  the  house 
hold,  I  went  to  the  club.  I  was  at  the  office 
early  the  next  morning  and  admitted  myself 
McKnight  rarely  appeared  before  half  after  ten, 
and  our  modest  office  force  some  time  after  nine. 
I  looked  over  my  previous  day's  mail  and  waited, 
with  such  patience  as  I  possessed,  for  Mc 
Knight.  In  the  interval  I  called  up  Mrs.  Klop- 
tonxand  announced  that  I  would  dine  at  home 
that  \mght.  What  my  household  subsists  on 
during  my  numerous  absences  I  have  never  dis 
covered.  Tea,  probably,  and  crackers.  Dili 
gent  search  when  I  have  made  a  midnight  ar 
rival,  never  reveals  anything  more  substantial. 
Possibly  I  imagine  it,  but  the  announcement  that 
I  am  about  to  make  a  journey  always  seems  to 
create  a  general  atmosphere  of  depression 
throughout  the  house,  as  though  Euphemia  and 
Eliza,  and  Thomas,  the  stableman,  were  already : 
subsisting,  in  imagination,  on  Mrs.  Klopton's 
meager  fare. 

So  I  called  her  up  and  announced  my  arrival. 
There  was  something  unusual  in  her  tone,  as 


S73    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

though  her  throat  was  tense  with  indignation. 
Always  shrill,  her  elderly  voice  rasped  my  ear 
painfully  through  the  receiver. 

"I  have  changed  the  butcher,  Mr.  Lawrence," 
she  announced  portentously.  "The  last  roast 
was  a  pound  short,  and  his  mutton-chops — any 
self-respecting  sheep  would  refuse  to  acknow 
ledge  them." 

As  I  said  before,  I  can  always  tell  from  the 
voice  in  which  Mrs.  Klopton  conveys  the  most 
indifferent  matters,  if  something  of  real  sig 
nificance  has  occurred.  Also,  through  long  habit, 
I  have  learned  how  quickest  to  bring  her  to  the 
point. 

"You  are  pessimistic  this  morning,"  I  re 
turned.  "What's  the  matter,  Mrs.  Klopton? 
You  haven't  used  that  tone  since  Euphemia 
baked  a  pie  for  the  iceman.  What  is  it  now? 
Somebody  poison  the  dog?" 

She  cleared  her  throat. 

"The  house  has  been  broken  into,  Mr.  Law 
rence,"  she  said.  "I  have  lived  in  the  best  fami 
lies,  and  never  have  I  stood  by  and  seen  what  I 
saw  yesterday — every  bureau  drawer  opened, 


AT   THE    STATION  273 

and  my — my  most  sacred  belongings — "  she 
choked. 

"Did  you  notify  the  police?"  I  asked  sharply. 

"Police !"  she  sniffed.     "Police !     It  was  the 

,^ 

police  that  did  it — two  detectives  with  a  search 
warrant.  I — I  wouldn't  dare  tell  you  over  the 
telephone  what  one  of  them  said  when  he  found 
th/ whisky  and  rock  candy  for  my  cough." 

vDid  they  take  anything?"  I  demanded,  every 
nerve^  on  edge. 

"They  took  the  cough  medicine,"  she  returned 
indignantly,  "and  they  said — " 

"Confound  the  cough  medicine !"  I  was  fran- 
**c.  "Did  they  take  anything  else?  Were  they 
in  my  dressing-room?" 

"Yes.  I  threatened  to  sue  them,  and  I  told 
them  what  you  would  do  when  you  came  back. 
But  they  wouldn't  listen.  They  took  away  that 
black  sealskin  bag  you  brought  home  from  Pitts- 
burg  with  you !" 

I  knew  then  that  my  hours  of  freedom  were 
numbered.  To  have  found  Sullivan  and  then,  in 
support  of  my  case  against  him,  to  have  pro 
duced  the  bag,  minus  the  bit  of  chain,  had  been 


274    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

my  intention.  But  the  police  had  the  bag,  and, 
beyond  knowing  something  of  Sullivan's  his 
tory,  I  was  practically  no  nearer  his  discovery 
than  before.  Hotchkiss  hoped  he  had  his  manf 
in  the  house  off  Washington  Circle,  but  on  the 
very  night  he  had  seen  him  Jennie  claimed  that 
Sullivan  had  tried  to  enter  the  Laurels.  Then 
— suppose  we  found  Sullivan  and  proved  the 
satchel  and  its  contents  his?  Since  the  police 
had  the  bit  of  chain  it  might  mean  involving 
Alison  in  the  story.  I  sat  down  and  buried  my 
face  in  my  hands.  There  was  no  escape.  I 
figured  it  out  despondingly. 

Against  me  was  the  evidence  of  the  survivors 
of  the  Ontario  that  I  had  been  accused  of  the 
murder  at  the  time.  There  had  been  blood-stains 
on  my  pillow  and  a  hidden  dagger.  Into  the 
bargain,  in  my  possession  had  been  found  a 
traveling-bag  containing  the  dead  man's  pocket- 
book. 

In  my  favor  was  McKnight's  theory  against 
Mrs.  Conway.  She  had  a  motive  for  wishing  to 
secure  the  notes,  she  believed  I  was  in  lower  ten, 


AT    THE    STATION  275 

and  she  had  collapsed  at  the  discovery  of  the 
crime  in  the  morning. 

Against  both  of  these  theories,  I  accuse  a 

,'; 

f  purely  chimerical  person  named  Sullivan,  who 
was  not  seen  by  any  of  the  survivors — save  one, 
Alison,  whom  I  could  not  bring  into  the  case.  I 
could/find  a  motive  for  his  murdering  his  father- 
in-Tiaw,  whom  he  hated,  but  again — I  would  have 
tovdrag  in  the  girl. 

And  not  one  of  the  theories  explained  the 
telegram  and  the  broken  necklace. 

Outside  the  office  force  was  arriving.  They 
were  comfortably  ignorant  of  my  presence,  and 
over  the  transom  floated  scraps  of  dialogue  and 
the  stenographer's  gurgling  laugh.  McKnight 
had  a  relative,  who  was  reading  law  with  him, 
in  the  intervals  between  calling  up  the  young 
women  of  his  acquaintance.  He  came  in  sing 
ing,  and  the  office  boy  joined  in  with  the  uncer 
tainty  of  voice  of  fifteen.  I  smiled  grimly.  I 
was  too  busy  with  my  own  troubles  to  find  any 
joy  in  opening  the  door  and  startling  them  into 
silence.  I  even  heard,  without  resentment,  Blobs 


276    THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

of  the  uncertain  voice  inquire  when  "Blake" 
would  be  back. 

I  hoped  McKnight  would  arrive  before  the 
arrest  occurred.  There  were  many  things  to 
arrange.  But  when  at  last,  impatient  of  his  de 
lay,  I  telephoned,  I  found  he  had  been  gone  for 
more  than  an  hour.  Clearly  he  was  not  coming 
directly  to  the  office,  and  with  such  resignation 
as  I  could  muster  I  paced  the  floor  and  waited. 

I  felt  more  alone  than  I  have  ever  felt  in  my 
life.  "Born  an  orphan,"  as  Richey  said,  I  had 
made  my  own  way,  carved  out  myself  such  suc 
cess  as  had  been  mine.  I  had  built  up  my  house 
of  life  on  the  props  of  law  and  order,  and  now 
some  unknown  hand  had  withdrawn  the  sup 
ports,  and  I  stood  among  ruins. 

I  suppose  it  is  the  maternal  in  a  woman  that 
makes  a  man  turn  to  her  when  everything  else 
fails.  The  eternal  boy  in  him  goes  to  have  his 
wounded  pride  bandaged,  his  tattered  self- 
respect  repaired.  If  he  loves  the  woman,  he 
wants  her  to  kiss  the  hurt. 

The  longing  to  see  Alison,  always  with  me, 
was  stronger  than  I  was  that  morning.  It  might 


AT   THE    STATION  277 

be  that  I  would  not  see  her  again.  I  had  noth 
ing  to  say  to  her  save  one  thing,  and  that,  under 
the  cloud  that  hung  over  me,  I  did  not  dare  to 
say.  But  I  wanted  to  see  her,  to  touch  her  hand 
— as  only  a  lonely  man  can  crave  it,  I  wanted 
the  comfert  of  her,  the  peace  that  lay  in  her 
presence.  And  so,  with  every  step  outside  the 
door  a  threat,  I  telephoned  to  her. 

She  was  gone!  The  disappointment  was 
greav  for  my  need  was  great.  In  a  fury  of 
revolt  against  the  scheme  of  things,  I  heard  that 
she  had  started  home  to  Richmond — but  that 
she  might  still  be  caught  at  the  station. 

To  see  her  had  by  that  time  become  an  obses 
sion.  I  picked  up  my  hat,  threw  open  the  door, 
and,  oblivious  of  the  shock  to  the  office  force  of 
my  presence,  followed  so  immediately  by  my 
exit,  I  dashed  out  to  the  elevator.  As  I  went 
down  in  one  cage  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  John 
son  and  tWo  other  men  going  up  in  the  next.  I 
hardly  gave  them  a  thought.  There  was  no 
hansom  in  sight,  and  I  jumped  on  a  passing  car. 
Let  come  what  might,  arrest,  prison,  disgrace, 
I  was  going  to  see  Alison. 


278    THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

I  saw  her.  I  flung  into  the  station,  saw  that 
it  was  empty — empty,  for  she  was  not  there. 
Then  I  hurried  back  to  the  gates.  She  was 
there,  a  familiar  figure  in  blue,  the  very  gown 
in  which  I  always  thought  of  her,  the  one  she 
had  worn  when,  Heaven  help  me — I  had  kissed 
her,  at  the  Carter  farm.  And  she  was  not  alone. 
Bending  over  her,  talking  earnestly,  with  all  his 
boyish  heart  in  his  face,  was  Richey. 

They  did  not  see  me,  and  I  was  glad  of  it. 
After  all,  it  had  been  McKnight's  game  first. 
I  turned  on  my  heel  and  made  my  way  blindly 
out  of  the  station.  Before  I  lost  them  I  turned 
once  and  looked  toward  them,  standing  apart 
from  the  crowd,  absorbed  in  each  other.  They 
were  the  only  two  people  on  earth  that  I  cared 
about,  and  I  left  them  there  together.  Then  I 
went  back  miserably  to  the  office  and  awaited 
arrest. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ON    TO    RICHMOND 

TJJANGELY  enough,  I  was  not  disturbed 
that  day.  McKnight  did  not  appear  at  all. 
at  my  desk  and  transacted  routine  business 
all  Afternoon,  working  with  feverish  energy. 
Like  a  man  on  the  verge  of  a  critical  illness  or 
a  hazardous  journey,  I  cleared  up  my  corre 
spondence,  paid  bills  until  I  had  writer's  cramp 
from  signing  checks,  read  over  my  will,  and 
paid  up  my  life  insurance,  made  to  the  benefit  of 
an  elderly  sister  of  my  mother's. 

I  no  longer  dreaded  arrest.  After  that  morn 
ing  in  the  station,  I  felt  that  anything  would  be 
a  relief  from  the  tension.  I  went  home  with  per 
fect  openness,  courting  the  warrant  that  I  knew 
was  waiting,  but  I  was  not  molested.  The  delay 
puzzled  me.  The  early  part  of  the  evening  was 
uneventful.  I  read  until  late,  with  occasional 
279 


280    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

lapses,  when  my  book  lay  at  my  elbow,  and  I 
smoked  and  thought.  Mrs.  Klopton  closed  the 
house  with  ostentatious  caution,  about  eleven, 
and  hung  around  waiting  to  enlarge  on  the  out- 
rageousness  of  the  police  search.  I  did  not  en 
courage  her. 

"One  would  think,"  she  concluded  pompously, 
one  foot  in  the  hall,  "that  you  were  something 
you  oughtn't  to  be,  Mr.  Lawrence.  They  acted 
as  though  you  had  committed  a  crime." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  didn't,  Mrs.  Klopton;" 
I  said  wearily.  "Somebody  did,  and  the  general 
verdict  seems  to  point  my  way." 

She  stared  at  me  in  speechless  indignation. 
Then  she  flounced  out.  She  came  back  once  to 
say  that  the  paper  predicted  cooler  weather,  and 
that  she  had  put  a  blanket  on  my  bed,  but,  to 
her  disappointment,  I  refused  to  reopen  the  sub 
ject. 

At  half  past  eleven  McKnight  and  Hotchkiss 
came  in.  Richey  has  a  habit  of  stopping  his 
car  in  front  of  the  house  and  honking  until  some 
one  comes  out.  He  has  a  code  of  signals  with 
the  horn,  which  I  never  remember.  Two  long 


ON    TO    RICHMOND  281 

and  a  short  blast  mean,  I  believe,  "Send  out  a 
box  of  cigarettes,"  and  six  short  blasts,  which 
sound  like  a  police  call,  mean  "Can  you  lend  me 
some  money?"  To-night  I  knew  something  was' 
up,  for  he  got  out  and  rang  the  door-bell  like  a 
Christian. 

They/-cS.me  into  the  library,  and  Hotchkiss 
wiped  his  collar  until  it  gleamed.  McKnight 
was  I  aggressively  cheerful. 

)t  pinched  yet !"  he  exclaimed.  "What  do 
you  think  of  that  for  luck !  You  always  were  a 
fortunate  devil,  Lawrence." 

"Yes,"  I  assented,  with  some  bitterness,  "I 
hardly  know  how  to  contain  myself  for  joy 
sometimes.  I  suppose  you  know" — to  Hotch 
kiss — "that  the  police  were  here  while  we  were 
at  Cresson,  and  that  they  found  the  bag  that  I 
brought  from  the  wreck?" 

"Things  are  coming  to  a  head,"  he  said 
thoughtfully,  "unless  a  little  plan  that  I  have  in 
mind — "  he  hesitated. 

"I  hope  so;  I  am  pretty  nearly  desperate,"  I 
said  doggedly.  "I've  got  a  mental  toothache, 
and  the  sooner  it's  pulled  the  better." 


282    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

"Tut,  tut,"  said  McKnight,  "think  of  the 
disgrace  to  the  firm  if  its  senior  member  goes 
up  for  life,  or — "  he  twisted  his  handkerchief 
into  a  noose,  and  went  through  an  elaborate  pan 
tomime. 

"Although  jail  isn't  so  bad,  anyhow,"  he  fin 
ished,  "there  are  fellows  that  get  the  habit  and 
keep  going  back  and  going  back."  He  looked 
at  his  watch,  and  I  fancied  his  cheerfulness  was 
strained.  Hotchkiss  was  nervously  fumbling  my 
book. 

"Did  you  ever  read  The  Purloined  Letter, 
Mr.  Blakeley?5'  he  inquired. 

"Probably,  years  ago,"  I  said.  "Poe,  isn't 
it?" 

He  was  choked  at  my  indifference.  "It  is  a 
masterpiece,"  he  said,  with  enthusiasm.  "I  re 
read  it  to-day." 

"And  what  happened?" 

"Then  I  inspected  the  rooms  in  the  house  off 
Washington  Circle.  I — I  made  some  discoveries, 
Mr.  Blakeley.  For  one  thing,  our  man  there  is 
left-handed."  He  looked  around  for  our  ap 
proval.  "There  was  a  small  cushion  on  the 


ON    TO    RICHMOND  283 

dresser,  and  the  scarf  pins  in  it  had  been  stuck 
in  with  the  left  hand." 

"Somebody  may  have  twisted  the  cushion,"  I 
objected,  but  he  looked  hurt,  and  I  desisted. 

"There  is  only  one  discrepancy,"  he  admitted, 
"but  it  troubles  me.  According  to  Mrs.  Carter, 
at  the/farm-house,  our  man  wore  gaudy  pa 
jamas,  while  I  found  here  only  the  most  severely 
plain  night-shirts." 

"Any  buttons  off?"  McKnight  inquired,  look 
ing  again  at  his  watch. 

"The  buttons  were  there,"  the  amateur  de 
tective  answered  gravely,  "but  the  buttonhole 
next  the  top  one  was  torn  through." 

McKnight  winked  at  me  furtively. 

"I  am  convinced  of  one  thing,"  Hotchkiss 
went  on,  clearing  his  throat,  "the  papers  are  not 
in  that  room.  Either  he  carries  them  with  him, 
or  he  has  sold  them." 

A  sound  on  the  street  made  both  my  visitors 
listen  sharply.  Whatever  it  was  it  passed  on, 
however.  I  was  growing  curious  and  the  re 
straint  was  telling  on  McKnight.  He  has  no 
talent  for  secrecy.  In  the  interval  we  discussed 


284    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

the  strange  occurrence  at  Cresson,  which  lost 
nothing  by  Hotchkiss'  dry  narration. 

"And  so,"  he  concluded,  "the  woman  in  the 
Baltimore  hospital  is  the  wife  of  Henry  Sulli 
van  and  the  daughter  of  the  man  he  murdered. 
No  wonder  he  collapsed  when  he  heard  of  the 
wreck." 

"Joy,  probably,"  McKnight  put  in.  "Is  that 
clock  right,  Lawrence?  Never  mind,  it  doesn't 
matter.  By  the  way,  Mrs.  Conway  dropped  in 
the  office  yesterday,  while  you  were  away." 

"What !"    I  sprang  from  my  chair. 

"Sure  thing.  Said  she  had  heard  great  things 
of  us,  and  wanted  us  to  handle  her  case  against 
the  railroad." 

"I  would  like  to  know  what  she  is  driving  at," 
I  reflected.  "Is  she  trying  to  reach  me  through 
you?" 

Richey's  flippancy  is  often  a  cloak  for  deeper 
feeling.  He  dropped  it  now.  "Yes,"  he  said, 
"she's  after  the  notes,  of  course.  And  I'll  tell 
you  I  felt  like  a  poltroon — whatever  that  may 
be — when  I  turned  her  down.  She  stood  by  the 
door  with  her  face  white,  and  told  me  contemptu- 


ON   TO    RICHMOND  285 

ously  that  I  could  save  you  from  a  murder 
charge  and  wouldn't  do  it.  She  made  me  feel 
like  a  cur.  I  was  just  as  guilty  as  if  I  could 
have  obliged  her.  She  hinted  that  there  were 
reasons  and  she  laid  my  attitude  to  beastly  mo 
tives." 

"Nofisense,"  I  said,  as  easily  as  I  could. 
Hotehkiss  had  gone  to  the  window.  "She  was 
excitfed.  There  are  no  'reasons,'  whatever  she 
means.' 

Richey  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  "We've 
been  together  too  long  to  let  any  'reasons'  or 
*unreasons'  come  between  us,  old  man,"  he  said, 
not  very  steadily. 

Hotchkis??,  who  had  been  silent,  here  came  for 
ward  in  his  most  impressive  manner.  He  put 
his  hands  under  his  coat-tails  and  coughed. 

"Mr.  Blakeley,"  he  began,  "by  Mr.  Mc- 
Knight's  advice  we  have  arranged  a  little  inter 
view  here  to-night.  If  all  has  gone  as  I  planned,  ( 
Mr.  Henry  Pinckney  Sullivan  is  by  this  time 
under  arrest.  Within  a  very  few  minutes — he 
will  be  here." 

"I  wanted  to  talk  to  him  before  he  was  locked 


286    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

up,"  Richey  explained.  "He's  clever  enough  to 
be  worth  knowing,  and,  besides,  I'm  not  so  cock 
sure  of  his  guilt  as  our  friend  the  Patch  on  the 
Seat  of  Government.  No  murderer  worthy  of 
the  name  needs  six  different  motives  for  the  same 
crime,  beginning  with  robbery,  and  ending  with 
an  unpleasant  father-in-law." 

We  were  all  silent  for  a  while.  McKnight 
stationed  himself  at  a  window,  and  Hotchkiss 
paced  the  floor  expectantly.  "It's  a  great  day 
for  modern  detective  methods,"  he  chirruped. 
"While  the  police  have  been  guarding  houses 
and  standing  with  their  mouths  open  waiting 
for  clues  to  fall  in  and  choke  them,  we  have 
pieced  together,  bit  by  bit,  a  fabric — " 

The  door-bell  rang,  followed  immediately  by 
sounds  of  footsteps  in  the  hall.  McKnight 
threw  the  door  open,  and  Hotchkiss,  raised  on 
his  toes,  flung  out  his  arm  in  a  gesture  of  su 
perb  eloquence. 

"Behold — your  man!"  he  declaimed. 

Through  the  open  doorway  came  a  tall,  blond 
fellow,  clad  in  light  gray,  wearing  tan  shoes, 
and  followed  closely  by  an  officer. 


ON   TO    RICHMOND  287 

"I  brought  him  here  as  you  suggested,  Mr. 
McKnight,"  said  the  constable. 

But  McKnight  was  doubled  over  the  library 
table  in  silent  convulsions  of  mirth,  and  I  was* 
almost  as  bad.  Little  Hotchkiss  stood  up,  his 
important  attitude  finally  changing  to  one  of 
chagrin,  while  the  blond  man  ceased  to  look 
angjry,  and  became  sheepish. 

ItN^as  Stuart,  our  confidential  clerk  for  the 
last  half-dozen  years ! 

McKnight  sat  up  and  wiped  his  eyes. 

"Stuart,"  he  said  sternly,  "there  are  two  very 
serious  things  we  have  learned  about  you.  First, 
you  jab  your  scarf  pins  into  your  cushion  with 
your  left  hand,  which  is  most  reprehensible; 
second,  you  wear — er — night-shirts,  instead  of 
pajamas.  Worse  than  that,  perhaps,  we  find 
that  one  of  them  has  a  buttonhole  torn  out  at  the 
neck." 

Stuart  was  bewildered.  He  looked  from  Mc 
Knight  to  me,  and  then  at  the  crestfallen  Hotch 
kiss. 

"I  haven't  any  idea  what  it's  all  about,"  he 
said.  "I  was  arrested  as  I  reached  my  boarding- 


288    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

house  to-night,  after  the  theater,  and  brought 
directly  here.  I  told  the  officer  it  was  a  rais- 
,take." 

Poor  Hotchkiss  tried  bravely  to  justify  the 
fiasco. 

"You  can  not  deny,"  he  contended,  "that  Mr. 
Andrew  Bronson  followed  you  to  your  rooms 
last  Monday  evening." 

Stuart  looked  at  us  and  flushed. 

"No,  I  don't  deny  it,"  he  said,  "but  there  was 
nothing  criminal  about  it,  on  my  part,  at  least. 
Mr.  Bronson  has  been  trying  to  induce  me  to 
secure  the  forged  notes  for  him.  But  I  did  not 
even  know  where  they  were." 

"And  you  were  not  on  the  wrecked  Washing 
ton  Flier?"  persisted  Hotchkiss.  But  Mc- 
Knight  interfered. 

"There  is  no  use  trying  to  put  the  other  man's 
identity  on  Stuart,  Mr.  Hotchkiss,"  he  protest 
ed.  "He  has  been  our  confidential  clerk  for  six 
years,  and  has  not  been  away  from  the  office  a 
day  for  a  year.  I  am  afraid  that  the  beautiful 
fabric  we  have  pieced  out  of  all  these  scraps  is 
going  to  be  a  crazy  quilt."  His  tone  was  face- 


ON   TO   RICHMOND  S89 

tious,  but  I  could  detect  the  undercurrent  of 
real  disappointment. 

I  paid  the  constable  for  his  trouble,  and  he 
departed.  Stuart,  still  indignant,  left  to  go 
back  to  Washington  Circle.  He  shook  hands 
with  Mcknight  and  myself  magnanimously,  but 
he  Kurled  a  look  of  utter  hatred  at  Hotchkiss, 
sunlt  crestfallen  in  his  chair. 

as  I  can  see,"  said  McKnight  dryly, 
we're  exactly  as  far  along  as  we  were  the  day 
we  met  at  the  Carter  place.     We're  not  a  step 
nearer  to  finding  our  man/' 

"We  have  one  thing  that  may  be  of  value,"  I 
suggested.  "He  is  the  husband  of  a  bronze- 
haired  woman  at  Van  Kirk's  hospital,  and  it  is 
just  possible  we  may  trace  him  through  her.  I 
hope  we  are  not  going  to  lose  your  valuable  co 
operation,  Mr.  Hotchkiss  ?"  I  asked. 

He  roused  at  that  to  feeble  interest.  "I — oh, 
•of  course  not,  if  you  still  care  to  have  me,  I — I 
was  wondering  about — the  man  who  just  went 
out,  Stuart,  you  say?  I — told  his  landlady  to 
night  that  he  wouldn't  need  the  room  again.  I 
hope  she  hasn't  rented  it  to  somebody  else." 


290     THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

We  cheered  him  as  best  we  could,  and  I  sug 
gested  that  we  go  to  Baltimore  the  next  day  and 
try  to  find  the  real  Sullivan  through  his  wife. 
He  left  sometime  after  midnight,  and  Riche}' 
and  I  were  alone. 

He  drew  a  chair  near  the  lamp  and  lighted  a 
cigarette,  and  for  a  time  we  were  silent.  I  was 
in  the  shadow,  and  I  sat  back  and  watched  him. 
It  was  not  surprising,  I  thought,  that  she  cared 
for  him :  women  had  always  loved  him,  perhaps 
because  he  always  loved  them.  There  was  no 
disloyalty  in  the  thought:  it  was  the  lad's  na 
ture  to  give  and  crave  affection.  Only — I  was 
different.  I  had  never  really  cared  about  a  girl 
before,  and  my  life  had  been  singularly  love 
less.  I  had  fought  a  lonely  battle  always.  Once 
before,  in  college,  we  had  both  laid  ourselves  and 
our  callow  devotions  at  the  feet  of  the  same  girl. 
Her  name  was  Dorothy — I  had  forgotten  the 
rest — but  I  remembered  the  sequel.  In  a  spirit 
of  quixotic  youth  I  had  relinquished  my  claim 
in  favor  of  Richey  and  had  gone  cheerfully  on 
my  way,  elevated  by  my  heroic  sacrifice  to  a 
somber,  white-hot  martyrdom.  As  is  often  the 


ON    TO    RICHMOND  291 

•nse,  McKnight's  first  words  showed  our  paral 
lel  lines  of  thought. 

"I  say,  Lollie,"  he  asked,  "do  you  remember 
'Dorothy  Browne?"  Browne,  that  was  it! 

"Dorothy  Browne?"  I  repeated.  "Oh — why 
yes,  I  .recall  her  now.  Why  ?" 

"Nothing,"  he  said.  "I  was  thinking  about 
her.l  That's  all.  You  remember  you  were  crazy 
about  4ier,  and  dropped  back  because  she  pre 
ferred  me?" 

"I  got  out,"  I  said  with  dignity,  "because 
you  declared  you  would  shoot  yourself  if  she 
didn't  go  with  you  to  something  or  other!" 

"Oh,  why  yes,  I  recall  now!"  he  mimicked. 
He  tossed  his  cigarette  in  the  general  direction 
of  the  hearth  and  got  up.  We  were  both  a  little 
conscious,  and  he  stood  with  his  back  to  me, 
fingering  a  Japanese  vase  on  the  mantel. 

"I  was  thinking,"  he  began,  turning  the  vase 
around,  "that,  if  you  feel  pretty  well  again,  and 
— and  ready  to  take  hold,  that  I  should  like  to 
go  away  for  a  week  or  so.  Things  are  fairly 
well  cleaned  up  at  the  office." 

"Do    you    mean — you    are   going  to   RicK- 


292    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

mond?"  I  asked,  after  a  scarcely  perceptible 
pause.  He  turned  and  faced  me,  with  his  hands 
thrust  in  his  pockets. 

"No.  That's  off,  Lollie.  The  Seiberts  are 
going  for  a  week's  cruise  along  the  coast.  I — 
the  hot  weather  has  played  hob  with  me  and  the 
cruise  means  seven  days'  breeze  and  bridge." 

I  lighted  a  cigarette  and  offered  him  the  box, 
but  he  refused.  He  was  looking  haggard  and 
suddenly  tired.  I  could  not  think  of  anything 
to  say,  and  neither  could  he,  evidently.  The  mat 
ter  between  us  lay  too  deep  for  speech. 

"How's  Candida?"  he  asked. 

'"Martin  says  a  month,  and  she  will  be  all 
right,"  I  returned,  in  the  same  tone.  He  picked 
up  his  hat,  but  he  had  something  more  to  say. 
He  blurted  it  out,  finally,  half  way  to  the  door. 

"The  Seiberts  are  not  going  for  a  couple  of 
<3ays,"  he  said,  "and  if  you  want  a  day  or  so 
off  to  go  down  to  Richmond  yourself — " 

"Perhaps  I  shall,"  I  returned,  as  indifferently 
as  I  could.  "Not  going  yet,  are  you  ?" 

"Yes.  It  is  late."  He  drew  in  his  breath  as 
if  he  had  something  more  to  say,  but  the  im- 


ON   TO    RICHMOND  293 

pulse  passed.  "Well,  good  night,"  he  said  from 
the  doorway. 

"Good  night,  old  man." 

The  next  moment  the  outer  door  slammed  and 
I  heard  the  engine  of  the  Cannonball  throbbing 
in  the  street.  Then  the  quiet  settled  down 
around  me  again,  and  there  in  the  lamplight  I 
dreaWd  dreams.  I  was  going  to  see  her. 

Suddenly-  the  idea  of  being  shut  away,  even 
temporarily,  from  so  great  and  wonderful  a 
worlrl  became  intolerable.  The  possibility  of  ar 
rest  before  I  could  get  to  Richmond  was  hideous, 
the  night  without  end. 

I  made  my  escape  the  next,  morning  through 
the  stable  back  of  the  house,  and  then,  by  de 
vious  dark  and  winding  ways,  to  the  office. 
There,  after  a  conference  with  Blobs,  whose 
features  fairly  jerked  with  excitement,  I  double- 
locked  the  door  of  my  private  office  and  finished 
off  some  imperative  work.  By  ten  o'clock  I 
was  free,  and  for  the  twentieth  time  I  consulted 
my  train  schedule.  At  five  minutes  after  ten, 
with  McKnight  not  yet  in  sight,  Blobs  knocked 
at  the  door,  the  double  rap  we  had  agreed  upon, 


294    THE    MAN    IN   LOWER    TEN 

and  on  being  admitted  slipped  in  and  quietly 
closed  the  door  behind  him.  His  eyes  were 
glistening  with  excitement,  and  a  purple  dab  of 
typewriter  ink  gave  him  a  peculiarly  villainous 
and  stealthy  expression. 

"They're  here,"  he  said,  "two  of  'em,  and  that 
crazy  Stuart  wasn't  on,  and  said  you  were  some 
where  in  the  building." 

A  door  slammed  outside,  followed  by  steps  on 
the  uncarpeted  outer  office. 

"This  way,"  said  Blobs,  in  a  husky  undertone, 
and,  darting  into  a  lavatory,  threw  open  a  door 
that  I  had  always  supposed  locked.  Thence 
into  a  back  hall  piled  high  with  boxes  and  past 
the  presses  of  a  bookbindery  to  the  freight  ele 
vator. 

Greatly  to  Blobs'  disappointment,  there  was 
no  pursuit.  I  was  exhilarated  but  out  of  breatK 
when  we  emerged  into  an  alleyway,  and  the  sharp 
daylight  shone  on  Blobs'  excited  face. 

"Great  sport,  isn't  it?"  I  panted,  dropping  a 
(dollar  into  his  palm,  inked  to  correspond  with 
his  face.  "Regular  walk-away  5n  the  hundred- 
yard  dash." 


ON   TO   RICHMOND  29* 

"Gimme  two  dollars  more  and  I'll  drop  'em 
down  the  elevator  shaft,"  he  suggested  fero 
ciously.  I  left  him  there  with  his  blood-thirsty 
schemes,  and  started  for  the  station.  I  had  a 
tendency  to  look  behind  me  now  and  then,  but 
I  readied  the  station  unnoticed.  The  afternoon 
was  hot,  the  train  rolled  slowly  along,  stopping 
to  pant  at  sweltering  stations,  from  whose  roofs 
the  healKTose  in  waves.  But  I  noticed  these 
things  objectively,  not  subjectively,  for  at  the 
end  of  the  j  ourney  was  a  girl  with  blue  eyes  and 
dark  brown  hair,  hair  that  could — had  I  not  seen 
it? — hang  loose  in  bewitching  tangles  or  be 
twisted  into  little  coils  of  delight. 


CHAPTER  XXVH 

THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STABS 

I  TELEPHONED  as  soon  as  I  reached  my 
hotel,  and  I  had  not  known  how  much  I  had 
hoped  from  seeing  her  until  I  learned  that  she 
was  out  of  town.  I  hung  up  the  receiver,  al 
most  dizzy  with  disappointment,  and  it  was 
fully  five  minutes  before  I  thought  of  calling  up 
again  and  asking  if  she  was  within  telephone 
reach.  It  seemed  she  was  down  on  the  bay  stay 
ing  with  the  Samuel  Forbeses. 

Sammy  Forbes!  It  was  a  name  to  conjure 
with  just  then.  In  the  old  days  at  college  I  had 
rather  flouted  him,  but  now  I  was  ready  to  take 
him  to  my  heart.  I  remembered  that  he  had  al 
ways  meant  well,  anyhow,  and  that  he  was  ex 
plosively  generous.  I  called  him  up. 

"By  the  fumes  of  gasoline!"  he  said,  when  I 
told  him  who  I  was.  "Blakeley,  the  Fount  of 
296 


THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STARS   297 

Wisdom  against  Woman!     Blakeley,  the  Great 
Unkissed !    Welcome  to  our  city !" 

Whereupon  he  proceeded  to  urge  me  to  come 
down  to  the  Shack,  and  to  say  that  I  was  an 
agreeable  surprise,  because  four  times  in  two 
hou^s  youths  had  called  up  to  ask  if  Alison 
Westvwas  stopping  with  him,  and  to  suggest 
that  they-Jmd  a  vacant  day  or  two. 

"Oh — Miss  West !"  I  shouted  politely,  there 
was  a  buzzing  on  the  line.  "Is  she  there?" 

Sam  had  no  suspicions.  Was  not  I  in  his 
mind  always  the  Great  Unkissed? — which  sounds 
like  the  Great  Unwashed  and  is  even  more  of  a 
reproach.  He  asked  me  down  promptly,  as  I 
had  hoped,  and  thrust  aside  my  objections. 

"Nonsense,"  he  said.  "Bring  yourself.  The 
lady  that  keeps  my  boarding-house  is  calling  to 
me  to  insist.  You  remember  Dorothy,  don't 
you,  Dorothy  Browne?  She  says  unless  you 
have  lost  your  figure  you  can  wear  my  clothes  \ 
all  right.  All  you  need  here  is  a  bathing  suit 
for  daytime  and  a  dinner  coat  for  evening." 

"It  sounds  cool,"  I  temporized.  "If  you  are 
sure  I  won't  put  you  out — very  well,  Sam,  since 


THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

you  and  your  wife  are  good  enough.  I  have  a 
couple  of  days  free.  Give  my  love  to  Dorothy 
jmtil  I  can  do  it  myself." 

Sam  met  me  himself  and  drove  me  out  to  the 
Shack,  which  proved  to  be  a  substantial  house 
overlooking  the  water.  On  the  way  he  con 
fided  to  me  that  lots  of  married  men  thought 
they  were  contented  when  they  were  merely  re 
signed,  but  that  it  was  the  only  life,  and  that 
Sam,  Junior,  could  swim  like  a  duck.  Inci 
dentally,  he  said  that  Alison  was  his  wife's 
cousin,  their  respective  grandmothers  having,  at 
proper  intervals,  married  the  same  man,  and  that 
Alison  would  lose  her  good  looks  if  she  was  not 
careful. 

"I  say  she's  worried,  and  I  stick  to  it,"  he 
said,  as  he  threw  the  lines  to  a  groom  and  pre 
pared  to  get  out.  "You  know  her,  and  she's 
the  kind  of  girl  you  think  you  can  read  like  a 
^book.  But  you  can't ;  don't  tool  yourself.  Take 
a  good  look  at  her  at  dinner,  Blake;  you  won't 
lose  your  head  like  the  other  fellows — and  then 
tell  me  what's  wrong  with  her.  We're  mighty 
fond  of  Allie." 


THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STARS    299 

He  went  ponderously  up  the  steps,  for  Sam 
had  put  on  weight  since  I  knew  him.  At  the 
door  he  turned  around.  "Do  you  happen  to 
know  the  MacLure's  at  Seal  Harbor?"  he  asked 
irrelevantly,  but  Mrs.  Sam  came  into  the  hall 
just  then,  both  hands  out  to  greet  me,  and, 
whatevexForbes  had  meant  to  say,  he  did  not 
pick  up  the  subject  again. 

"We  are  having  tea  in  here,"  Dorothy  said 
gaily,  indicating  the  door  behind  her.  "Tea  by 
courtesy,  because  I  think  tea  is  the  only  bever 
age  that  isn't  represented.  And  then  we  must 
dress,  for  this  is  hop  night  at  the  club." 

"Which  is  as  great  a  misnomer  as  the  tea," 
Sam  put  in,  ponderously  struggling  out  of  his 
linen  driving  coat.  "It's  bridge  night,  and  the 
only  hops  are  in  the  beer." 

He  was  still  gurgling  over  this  as  he  took  me 
up-stairs.  He  showed  me  my  room  himself,  and 
then  began  the  fruitless  search  for  evening  rai 
ment  that  kept  me  home  that  night  from  the 
club.  For  I  couldn't  wear  Sam's  clothes.  That 
was  clear,  after  a  perspiring  seance  of  a  half 
hour. 


300    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

"I  won't  do  it,  Sam,"  I  said,  when  I  had 
draped  his  dress-coat  on  me  toga  fashion. 
"Who  am  I  to  have  clothing  to  spare,  like  this, 
when  many  a  poor  chap  hasn't  even  a  cellar  door 
to  cover  him.  I  won't  do  it ;  I'm  selfish,  but  not 
that  selfish." 

"Lord,"  he  said,  wiping  his  face,  "how  you've 
kept  your  figure !  I  can't  wear  a  belt  any  more ; 
got  to  have  suspenders." 

He  reflected  over  his  grievance  for  some  time, 
sitting  on  the  side  of  the  bed.  "You  could  go 
as  you  are,"  he  said  finally.  "We  do  it  all  the 
time,  only  to-night  happens  to  be  the  annual 
something  or  other,  and — "  he  trailed  off  into 
silence,  trying  to  buckle  my  belt  around  him. 
"A  good  six  inches,"  he  sighed.  "I  never  get 
into  a  hansom  cab  any  more  that  I  don't  expect 
to  see  the  horse  fly  up  in  the  air.  Well,  Allie 
,  isn't  going  either.  She  turned  down  Granger 
this  afternoon,  the  Annapolis  fellow  you  met  on 
the  stairs,  pigeon-breasted  chap — and  she  al 
ways  gets  a  headache  on  those  occasions." 

He  got  up  heavily  and  went  to  the  door. 
"Granger  is  leaving,"  he  said,  "I  may  be  able  to 


THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STARS    301 

get  his  dinner  coat  for  you.  How  well  do  you 
know  her?"  he  asked,  with  his  hand  on  the  knob. 

"If  you  mean  Dolly — ?" 

"Alison." 

"Fairly  well,"  I  said  cautiously.  "Not  as 
well  as\T  would  like  to.  I  dined  with  her  last 
week  in  Washington.  And — I  knew  her  before 
that." 

Forbes  touched  a  bell  instead  of  going  out, 
and  told  the  servant  who  answered  to  see  if  Mr. 
Granger's  suit-case  had  gone.  If  not,  to  bring 
it  across  the  hall.  Then  he  came  back  to  his 
former  position  on  the  bed. 

"You  see,  we  feel  responsible  for  Allie — near 
relation  and  all  that,"  he  began  pompously. 
"And  we  can't  talk  to  the  people  here  at  the 
house — all  the  men  are  in  love  with  her,  and  all 
the  women  are  jealous.  Then — there's  a  lot  of 
money,  too,  or  will  be." 

"Confound  the  money!"  I  muttered.  "That 
is — nothing.  Razor  slipped." 

"I  can  tell  you,"  he  went  on,  "because  you 
don't  lose  your  head  over  every  pretty  face — 
although  Allie  is  more  than  that,  of  course.  But 


S02    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER   TEN 

about  a  month  ago  she  went  away — to  Seal  Hai?" 
bor,  to  visit  Janet  MacLure.    Know  her?" 

"No." 

"She  came  home  to  Richmond  yesterday,  and 
then  came  down  here — Allie,  I  mean.  And  yes 
terday  afternoon  Dolly  had  a  letter  from  Janet 
— something  about  a  second  man — and  saying 
she  was  disappointed  not  to  have  had  Alison 
there,  that  she  had  promised  them  a  two  weeks' 
visit!  What  do  you  make  of  th\t?  And  that 
isn't  the  worst.  Allie  herself  wasn't  in  the  room, 
but  there  were  eight  other  women,  and  because 
Dolly  had  put  belladonna  in  her  eyes  the  night 
before  to  see  how  she  would  look,  and  as  a  result 
couldn't  see  anything  nearer  than  across  the 
room,  some  one  read  the  letter  aloud  to  her,  and 
the  whole  story  is  out.  One  of  the  cats  told 
Granger  and  the  boy  proposed  to  Allie  to-day, 
to  show  her  he  didn't  care  a  tinker's  dam  where 
she  had  been." 

"Good  boy !"  I  said,  with  enthusiasm.  I  liked 
the  Granger  fellow — since  he  was  out  of  the 
running.  But  Sam  was  looking  at  me  with  sus 
picion* 


THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STARS    303 

"Blake,"  he  said,  «if  I  didn't  know  you  for 
what  you  are,  I'd  say  you  were  interested  there 

yourself." 

I 

Being  so  near  her,  under  the  same  roof,  with 

i 

even  the  tie  of  a  dubious  secret  between  us,  was 
making  Vejieady.  I  pushed  Forbes  toward  the 
doer. 

"I  interested !"  I  retorted,  holding  him  by  the 
shoulders.  "There  isn't  a  word  in  your  vocabu 
lary  to  fit  my  condition.  I  am  an  island  in  a 
sunlit  sea  of  emotion,  Sam,  a — an  empty  place 
surrounded  by  longing — a — " 

"An  empty  place  surrounded  by  longing!" 
he  retorted.  "You  want  your  dinner,  that's 
what's  the  matter  with  you — " 

I  shut  the  door  on  him  then.  He  seemed  sud 
denly  sordid.  Dinner,  I  thought!  Although,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  made  a  very  fair  meal  when, 
Granger's  suit-case  not  having  gone,  in  his  coat 
and  some  other  man's  trousers,  I  was  finally  fit 
for  the  amenities.  Alison  did  not  come  down  to 
dinner,  so  it  was  clear  she  would  not  go  over  to 
the  club-house  dance.  I  pled  my  injured  arm, 
and  a  fictitious,  vaguely  located  sprain  from  tho 


304    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

wreck,  as  an  excuse  for  remaining  at  home. 
Sam  regaled  the  table  with  accounts  of  my  dis 
trust  of  women,  my  one  love  affair — with  Doro 
thy  ;  to  which  I  responded,  as  was  expected,  that 
only  my  failure  there  had  kept  me  single  all 
these  years,  and  that  if  Sam  should  be  mys 
teriously  missing  during  the  bathing  hour  to 
morrow,  and  so  on. 

And  when  the  endless  meal  was  over,  and 
yards  of  white  veils  had  been  tied  over  pounds 
of  hair — or  is  it,  too,  bought  by  the  yard? — 
and  some  eight  ensembles  with  their  abject  com 
plements  had  been  packed  into  three  automo 
biles  and  a  trap,  I  drew  a  long  breath  and  faced 
about.  I  had  just  then  only  one  object  in  life 
— to  find  Alison,  to  assure  her  of  my  absolute 
faith  and  confidence  in  her,  and  to  offer  my  help 
and  my  poor  self,  if  she  would  let  me,  in  her 
service. 

She  was  not  easy  to  find.  I  searched  the  lower 
floor,  the  verandas  and  the  grounds,  circum 
spectly.  Then  I  ran  into  a  little  English  girl 
who  turned  out  to  be  her  maid,  and  who  also 
was  searching.  She  was  concerned  because  her 


THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STARS    SOS 

mistress  had  had  no  dinner,  and  because  the 
tray  of  food  she  carried  would  soon  be  cold.  I 
took  th</  tray  from  her,  on  the  glimpse  of  some 
thing  white  on  the  shore,  and  that  was  how  I 
met  the  Girl  again. 

She  was  sitting"  on  an  over-turned  boat,  her 
chin  in  her  hands,  staring  out  to  sea.  The  soft 
tide  of  the  bay  lapped  almost  at  her  feet,  and 
the  draperies  of  her  white  gown  melted  hazily 
into  the  sands.  She  looked  like  a  wraith,  a  de 
spondent  phantom  of  the  sea,  although  the  ad 
jective  is  redundant.  Nobody  ever  thinks  of  a 
cheerful  phantom.  Strangely  enough,  consider 
ing  her  evident  sadness,  she  was  whistling  softly 
to  herself,  over  and  over,  some  dreary  little 
minor  air  that  sounded  like  a  Bohemian  dirge. 
She  glanced  up  quickly  when  I  made  a  misstep 
and  my  dishes  jingled.  All  considered,  the  tray 
was  out  of  the  picture:  the  sea,  the  misty  star 
light,  the  girl,  with  her  beauty — even  the  sad 
little  whistle  that  stopped  now  and  then  to  go 
bravely  on  again,  as  though  it  fought  against 
the  odds  of  a  trembling  lip.  And  then  I  came, 
accompanied  by  a  tray  of  little  silver  dishes  that 


306    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

jingled  and  an  unmistakable  odor  of  broiled 
chicken ! 

"Oh!"  she  said  quickly;  and  then,  "Oh!  I 
thought  you  were  Jenkins." 

"Timeo  Danaos — what's  the  rest  of  it?"  I 
asked,  tendering  my  offering.  "You  didn't 
have  any  dinner,  you  know."  I  sat  down  beside 
her.  "See,  I'll  be  the  table.  What  was  the  old 
fairy  tale?  'Little  goat  bleat:  little  table  ap 
pear!'  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  be  the  goat, 
too." 

She  was  laughing  rather  tremulously. 

"We  never  do  meet  like  other  people,  do  we?" 
she  asked.  "We  really  ought  to  shake  hands 
and  say  how  are  you." 

"I  don't  want  to  meet  you  like  other  people, 
and  I  suppose  you  always  think  of  me  as  wear 
ing  the  other  fellow's  clothes,"  I  returned 
meekly.  "I'm  doing  it  again :  I  don't  seem  to  be 
able  to  help  it.  These  are  Granger's  that  I  have 
on  now." 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  again, 
joyously,  this  time. 

"Oh,  it's  so  ridiculous,"  she  said,  "and  you 


THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STARS 

have  never  seen  me  when  I  was  not  eatipg !  Jt'i 
too  prosaic !" 

"Which  reminds  me  that  the  chicleen  is  get- 
tin^cold,  ahd  the  ice  warm,"  I  sugg^ted.  "At 
the  time,  I  thought  there  could  be  no  place  bet 
ter  than  the  farm-house  kitchen — b;j,t  this  is.  I 
ordered  all  this  for  something  I  want  to  say  to 
jou — the  sea,  the  sand,  the  stars." 

"How  alliterative  you  are!"  she  aaid,  trying 
to  be  flippant.  "You  are  not  to  sty  -anything 
until  I  have  had  my  supper.  Look  how  the 
things  are  spilled  around!" 

But  she  ate  nothing,  after  all,  and  pretty 
soon  I  put  the  tray  down  in  the  sand.  I  said 
little;  there  was  no  hurry.  We  were  together, 
and  time  meant  nothing  against  that  age-long 
wash  of  the  sea.  The  air  blew  her  hair  in  small 
damp  curls  against  her  face,  and  little  by  little 
the  tide  retreated,  leaving  our  boat  an  oasis  in 
a  waste  of  gray  sand. 

"If  seven  maids  with  seven  mops  swept  it  foi 

half  a  year 
Do  you  suppose,  the  walrus  said,  that  they  ^ 

get  it  clear?" 


308    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

she  threw  at  me  once  when  she  must  have  known 
I  was  going  to  speak.  I  held  her  hand,  and  as 
long  as  I  merely  held  it  she  let  it  lie  warm  in 
mine.  But  when  I  raised  it  to  my  lips,  and 
kissed  the  soft,  open  palm,  she  drew  it  away 
without  displeasure. 

"Not  that,  please,"  she  protested,  and  fell  to 
whistling  softly  again,  her  chin  in  her  hanis. 
"I  can't  sing,"  she  said,  to  break  an  awkward 
pause,  "and  so,  when  I'm  fidgety,  or  have  some 
thing  on  my  mind,  I  whistle.  I  hope  you  don't 
dislike  it?" 

"I  love  it,"  I  asserted  warmly.  I  did;  when 
she  pursed  her  lips  like  that  I  was  mad  to  kiss 
them. 

"I  saw  you — at  the  station,"  she  said  sud 
denly.  "You — you  were  in  a  hurry  to  go."  I 
did  not  say  anything,  and  alter  a  pause  she 
drew  a  long  breath.  "Men  are  queer,  aren't 
they  ?"  she  said,  and  fell  to  whistling  again. 

After  a  while  she  sat  up  as  if  she  had  made  a 
resolution.  "I  am  going  to  confess  something," 
she  announced  suddenly.  "You  said,  you  know, 
that  you  had  ordered  all  this  for  something  you 


THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STARS    309 

— you  wantectto  say  to  me.  But  the  fact  is,  I 
fixed  it/all — came  here,  I  mean,  because — I  knew 
ould  come,  and  I  had  something  to  tell 
you.  It  was  such  a  miserable  thing  I — needed 
the  accessories  to  help  me  out." 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  anything  that  dis 
tresses  you  to  tell,"  I  assured  her.  "I  didn't 
come  here  to  force  your  confidence,  Alison.  I 
came  because  I  couldn't  help  it."  She  did  not 
object  to  my  use  of  her  name. 

"Have  you  found  the — your  papers?"  she 
asked,  looking  directly  at  me  for  almost  the  first 
time. 

"Not  yet.    We  hope  to." 

"The — police  have  not  interfered  with  you?" 

"They  haven't  had  any  opportunity,"  I 
equivocated.  "You  needn't  distress  yourself 
about  that,  anyhow." 

"But  I  do.  I  wonder  why  you  still  believe  in 
me?  Nobody  else  does." 

"I  wonder,"  I  repeated,  "why  I  do !" 

"If  you  produce  Harry  Sullivan,"  she  was 
saying,  partly  to  herself,  "and  if  you  could 
connect  him  with — Mr.  Bronson,  and  get  a  full 


310    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

account  of  *,rhy  he  was  on  the  train,  and  all  that, 
it — it  would  help,  wouldn't  it?" 

I  acknowledged  that  it  would.  Now  that  the 
whole  truth  was  almost  in  my  possession,  I  was 
stricken  with  the  old  cowardice.  I  did  not  want 
to  know  what  she  might  tell  me.  The  yellow 
line  on  the  horizon,  where  the  moon  was  coming 
up,  was  a  broken  bit  of  golden  chain:  my  heel 
in  the  sand  was  again  pressed  on  a  woman's 
yielding  fingers:  I  pulled  myself  together  with 
a  jerk. 

"In  order  that  what  you  tell  me  may  help  me, 
if  it  will,"  I  said  constrainedly,  "it  would  be 
necessary,  perhaps,  that  you  tell  it  to  the  police. 
Since  they  have  found  the  end  of  the  neck 
lace—" 

"The  end  of  the  necklace!"  she  repeated 
slowly.  "What  about  the  end  of  the  necklace  ?" 

I  stared  at  her.  "Don't  you  remember" — I 
leaned  forward — "the  end  of  the  cameo  neck 
lace,  the  part  that  was  broken  off,  and  was  found 
in  the  black  sealskin  bag,  stained  with — with 
blood?" 

"Blood,"  she  said  dully.     "You  mean  that 


you  found  the  broken  end?  And  then — you  had 
my  £old  pocket-book,  and  you  saw  the  necklace 
in  it,  aii(3  you — must  have  thought — " 

"I  didn't  think  anything,"  I  hastened  to  as 
sure  her.  "I  tell  you,  Alison,  I  never  thought 
of  anything  but  that  you  were  unhappy,  and 
that  I  had  no  right  to  help  you.  God  knows,  I 
thought  you  didn't  want  me  to  help  you." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  me  and  I  took  it  be 
tween  both  of  mine.  No  word  of  love  had  passed 
between  us,  but  I  felt  that  she  knew  and  under 
stood.  It  was  one  of  the  moments  that  come 
seldom  in  a  lifetime,  and  then  only  in  great 
crises,  a  moment  of  perfect  understanding  and 
trust. 

Then  she  drew  her  hand  away  and  sat,  erect 
and  determined,  her  fingers  laced  in  her  lap.  As 
she  talked  the  moon  came  up  slowly  and  threw 
its  bright  pathway  across  the  water.  Back  of 
us,  in  the  trees  beyond  the  sea  wall,  a  sleepy  bird 
chirruped  drowsily,  and  a  wave,  larger  and 
bolder  than  its  brothers,  sped  up  the  sand, 
bringing  the  moon's  silver  to  our  \ery  feet.  I 
bent  toward  the  girl. 


812    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

"I  am  going  to  ask  just  one  question." 

"Anything  you  like."  Her  voice  was  almost 
dreary. 

"Was  it — because  of  anything  you  are  going 
to  tell  me  that  you  refused  Richey?" 

She  drew  her  breath  in  sharply. 

"No,"  she  said,  without  looking  at  me.  "No. 
That  was  not  the  reason." 


SHE  told  her  story  evenly,  with  her  eyes  on 
the  water,  only  now  and  then,  when  I,  too, 
sat  looking  seaward,  I  thought  she  glanced  at 
me  furtively.  And  once,  in  the  middle  of  it,  sha 
etopped  altogether. 

"You  don't  realize  it,  probably,"  she  pro 
tested,  "but  you  look  like  a — a  war  god.  Your 
face  is  horrible.'* 

"I  will  turn  my  back,  if  it  will  help  any,"  I 
said  stormily,  "but  if  you  expect  me  to  look 
anything  but  murderous,  why,  you  don't  know 
what  I  am  going  through  with.  That's  all." 

The  story  of  her  meeting  with  the  Curtis 
woman  was  brief  enough.  They  had  met  ir> 
Rome  first,  where  Alison  and  her  mother  had 
taken  a  villa  for  a  year.  Mrs.  Curtis  had  hov 
ered  on  the  ragged  edges  of  society  there, 
313 


814    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

pleading  the  poverty  of  the  south  since  the  war 
as  a  reason  for  not  going  out  more.  There  was 
talk  of  a  brother,  but  Alison  had  not  seen  him, 
•and  after  a  scandal  which  implicated  Mrs.  Cur 
tis  and  a  young  attache  of  the  Austrian  em 
bassy,  Alison  had  been  forbidden  to  see  the 
woman. 

"The  women  had  never  liked  her,  anyhow," 
she  said.  "She  did  unconventional  things,  and 
they  are  very  conventional  there.  And  they  said 
she  did  not  always  pay  her — her  gambling  debts. 
I  didn't  like  them.  I  thought  they  didn't  like  her 
because  she  was  poor — and  popular.  Then — we 
came  home,  and  I  almost  forgot  her,  but  last 
spring,  when  mother  was  not  well — she  had  taken 
grandfather  to  the  Riviera,  and  it  always  uses 
her  up — we  went  to  Virginia  Hot  Springs,  and 
we  met  them  there,  the  brother,  too,  this  time.  His 
name  was  Sullivan,  Harry  Pinckney  Sullivan." 

"I  know.    Go  on." 

"Mother  had  a  nurse,  and  I  was  alone  a  great 
deal,  and  they  were  very  kind  to  me.  I — I  saw 
a  lot  of  them.  The  brother  rather  attracted 
me,  partly — partly  because  he  did  not  make  love 


.v 


ALISON'S    STOR 

to  me.  He  even  seemed  to  avoid  me,  and  I  was 
piqued.  I  had  been  spoiled,  I  suppose.  Most 
of  the  other  men  I  knew  had — had — " 

"I  know  that,  too,"  I  said  bitterly,  and  moved 
away  from  her  a  trifle.  I  was  brutal,  but  the 
whole  story  was  a  long  torture.  I  think  she 
knew  what  I  was  suffering,  for  she  showed  no  re 
sentment. 

"It  was  early  and  there  were  few  people 
around — none  that  I  cared  about.  And  mother 
and  the  nurse  played  cribbage  eternally,  until 
I  felt  as  though  the  little  pegs  were  driven 
into  my  brain.  And  when  Mrs.  Curtis  arranged 
drives  and  picnics,  I — I  slipped  away  and  went. 
I  suppose  you  won't  believe  me,  but  I  had  never 
done  that  kind  of  thing  before,  and  I — well,  I 
have  paid  up,  I  think." 

"What  sort  of  looking  chap  was  Sullivan?" 
I  demanded.  I  had  got  up  and  was  pacing  back 
and  forward  on  the  sand.  I  remember  kicking 
savagely  at  a  bit  of  water-soaked  board  that  lay 
in  my  way. 

"Very  handsome — as  large  as  you  are,  but 
fair,  and  even  more  erect." 


816    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

I  drevr  my  shoulders  up  sharply.  I  am 
straight  enough,  but  I  was  fairly  sagging  with 
jealous  rage. 

"When  mother  began  to  get  around,  some 
body  told  her  that  I  had  been  going  about  with 
Mrs.  Curtis  and  her  brother,  and  we  had  a  dread 
ful  time.  I  was  dragged  home  like  a  bad  child. 
Did  anybody  ever  do  that  to  you  ?" 

"Nobody  ever  cared.  I  was  born  an  orphan," 
I  said,  with  a  cheerless  attempt  at  levity.  "Go 
on." 

"If  Mrs.  Curtis  knew,  she  never  said  any 
thing.  She  wrote  me  charming  letters,  and  in 
the  summer,  when  they  went  to  Cresson,  she 
asked  me  to  visit  her  there.  I  was  too  proud  to 
let  her  know  that  I  could  not  go  where  I  wished, 
and  so — I  sent  Polly,  my  maid,  to  her  aunt's 
in  the  country,  pretended  to  go  to  Seal  Harbor, 
and  really — went  to  Cresson.  You  see  I  warned 
you  it  would  be  an  unpleasant  story." 

I  went  over  and  stood  in  front  of  her.  All  the 
accumulated  jealousy  of  the  last  few  weeks  had 
been  fired  by  what  she  told  me.  If  Sullivan 
had  come  across  the  sands  just  then,  I  think  I 


ALISON'S    STORY  817 

would  have  strangled  him  with  my  hands,  out  of 
pure  hate. 

"Did  you  marry  him?"  I  demanded.  My  voice 
sounded  hoarse  and  strange  in  my  ears.  "That's 
all  I  want  to  know.  Did  you  marry  him?" 

"No." 

I  drew  a  long  breath, 

"You — cared  about  him?" 

She  hesitated. 

"No,"  she  said  finally.  "I  did  not  care  about 
him." 

I  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  boat  and 
mopped  my  hot  face.  I  was  heartily  ashamed 
of  myself,  and  mingled  with  my  abasement  was 
a  gre»+  relief.  If  she  had  not  married  him,  and 
had  not  cared  for  him,  nothing  else  was  of  any 
importance. 

"I  was  sorry,  of  course,  the  moment  the  train 
had  started,  but  I  had  wired  I  was  coming,  and 
I  could  not  go  back,  and  then  when  I  got  there, 
the  place  was  charming.  There  were  no  neigh 
bors,  but  we  fished  and  rode  and  motored,  and — 
it  was  moonlight,  like  this." 

I  put  my  hand  over  both  of  hers,  clasped  in 


her  lap.  "I  know,"  I  acknowledged  repent 
antly,  "and — people  do  queer  things  when  it  is 
moonlight.  The  moon  has  got  me  to-night, 
Alison.  If  I  am  a  boor,  remember  that,  won't 
you?" 

Her  fingers  lay  quiet  under  mine.  "And  so," 
she  went  on  with  a  little  sigh,  "I — began  to 
think  perhaps  I  cared.  But  all  the  time  I  felt 
that  there  was  something  not  quite  right.  Now 
and  then  Mrs.  Curtis  would  say  or  do  something 
that  gave  me  a  queer  start,  as  if  she  had 
dropped  a  mask  for  a  moment.  And  there  was 
trouble  with  the  servants;  they  were  almost  in 
solent.  I  couldn't  understand.  I  don't  know 
when  it  dawned  on  me  that  the  old  Baron  Caval- 
canti  had  been  right  when  he  said  they  were  not 
my  kind  of  people.  But  I  wanted  to  get  away, 
wanted  it  desperately." 

"Of  course,  they  were  not  your  kind,"  I  cried. 
"The  man  was  married!  The  girl  Jennie,  a 
housemaid,  was  a  spy  in  Mrs.  Sullivan's  em 
ploy.  If  he  had  pretended  to  marry  you  I  would 
have  killed  him!  Not  only  that,  but  the  man 
he  murdered,  Harrington,  was  his  wife's  father. 


ALISON'S    STORY  319 

And  I'll  see  him  hang  by  the  neck  yet  if  it  takes 
every  energy  and  every  penny  I  possess." 

I  could  have  told  her  so  much  more  gently, 
have  broken  the  shock  for  her;  I  have  never^ 
been  proud  of  that  evening  on  the  sand.  I  was 
alternately  a  boor  and  a  ruffian — like  a  hurt 
youngster  who  passes  the  blow  that  has  hurt 
him  on  to  his  playmate,  that  both  may  bawl  to 
gether.  And  now  Alison  sat,  white  and  cold, 
without  speech. 

"Married!"  she  said  finally,  in  a  small  voice. 
"Why,  I  don't  think  it  is  possible,  is  it?  I — I 
was  on  my  way  to  Baltimore  to  marry  him  my 
self,  when  the  wreck  came." 

"But  you  said  you  didn't  care  for  him!"  I 
protested,  my  heavy  masculine  mind  unable  to 
jump  the  gaps  in  her  story.  And  then,  without 
the  slightest  warning,  I  realized  that  she  was 
crying.  She  shook  off  my  hand  and  fumbled 
for  her  handkerchief,  and  failing  to  find  it,  she 
accepted  the  one  I  thrust  into  her  wet  fingers. 

Then,  little  by  little,  she  told  me  from  the 
handkerchief,  a  sordid  story  of  a  motor  trip  in 
the  mountains  without  Mrs.  Curtis,  of  a  lost 


320    THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

road  and  a  broken  car,  and  a  rainy  night  when 
they — she  and  Sullivan,  tramped  eternally  and 
did  not  get  home.  And  of  Mrs.  Curtis,  when 
they  got  home  at  dawn,  suddenly  grown  con 
ventional  and  deeply  shocked.  Of  her  own 
proud,  half-disdainful  consent  to  make  possible 
the  hackneyed  compromising  situation  by  marry 
ing  the  rascal,  and  then — of  his  disappearance 
from  the  train.  It  was  so  terrible  to  her,  such 
a  Heaven-sent  relief  to  me,  in  spite  of  my  rage 
against  Sullivan,  that  I  laughed  aloud.  A% 
which  she  looked  at  me  over  the  handkerchief. 

"I  know  it's  funny,"  she  said,  with  a  catch  in 
her  breath.  "When  I  think  that  I  nearly  mar 
ried  a  murderer — and  didn't — I  cry  for  sheer 
joy."  Then  she  buried  her  face  and  cried  again. 

"Please  don't,"  I  protested  unsteadily.  "I 
won't  be  responsible  if  you  keep  on  crying  like 
that.  I  may  forget  that  I  have  a  capital 
charge  hanging  over  my  head,  and  that  I  may 
be  arrested  at  any  moment." 

That  brought  her  out  of  the  handkerchief  at 
once.  "I  meant  to  be  so  helpful,"  she  said,  "and 
I've  thought  of  nothing  but  myself  1  There 


ALISON'S    STORY 

were  some  things  I  meant  to  tell  you.    If  Jennie 

was — what  you  say,  then  I  understand  why  she 

^came  to  me  just  before  I  left.     She  had  been 

[packing  my  things  and  she  must  have  seen  what 

condition  I  was  in,  for  she  came  over  to  me  when 

I  was  getting  my  wraps  on,  to  leave,  and  said, 

'Don't  do  it,  Miss  West,  I  beg  you  won't  do  it ; 

you'll  be  sorry  ever  after.'    And  just  then  Mrs. 

Curtis  came  in  and  Jennie  slipped  out." 

"That  was  all?" 

"No.  As  we  went  through  the  station  the 
telegraph  operator  gave  Har — Mr.  Sullivan  a 
message.  He  read  it  on  the  platform,  and  it 
excited  him  terribly.  He  took  his  sister  aside 
and  they  talked  together.  He  was  white  with 
either  fear  or  anger — I  don't  know  which. 
Then,  when  we  boarded  the  train,  a  woman  in 
black,  with  beautiful  hair,  who  was  standing 
on  the  car  platform,  touched  him  on  the  arm  and 
then  drew  back.  He  looked  at  her  and  glanced 
away  again,  but  she  reeled  as  if  he  had  struck 
her." 

"Then  what?"  The  situation  was  growing 
clearer. 


822    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

"Mrs.  Curtis  and  I  had  the  drawing-room, 
I  had  a  dreadful  night,  just  sleeping  a  little  no^i 
and  then.  I  dreaded  to  see  dawn  come.  It  was 
to  be  my  wedding-day.  When  we  found  Harry 
had  disappeared  in  the  night,  Mrs.  Curtis  was 
in  a  frenzy.  Then — I  saw  his  cigarette  case  in 
your  hand.  I  had  given  it  to  him.  You  wore 
his  clothes.  The  murder  was  discovered  and 
you  were  accused  of  it !  What  could  I  do  ?  And 
then,  afterward,  when  I  saw  him  asleep  at  the 
farm-house,  I — I  was  panic-stricken.  I  locked 
him  in  and  ran.  I  didn't  know  why  he  did  it, 
but — he  had  killed  a  man." 

Some  one  was  calling  Alison  through  a  mega 
phone,  from  the  veranda.  It  sounded  like  Sam. 
"All-ee,"  he  called.  "All-eel  I'm  going  to  have 
some  anchovies  on  toast !  All-eel"  Neither  of  us 
heard. 

"I  wonder,"  I  reflected,  "if  you  would  bo 
willing  to  repeat  a  part  of  that  story — justj 
from  the  telegram  on — to  a  couple  of  detectives, 
•ay  on  Monday.  If  you  would  tell  that,  and — 
how  the  end  of  your  necklace  got  into  the  seal- 
akin  bag — " 


ALISON'S    STORY  323 

"My  necklace!"  she  repeated.  "But  it  isn't 
mine.  I  picked  it  up  in  the  car." 

"All-ee!"  Sam  again.  "I  see  you  down  there. 
.I'm  making  a  julep!" 

Alison  turned  and  called  through  her  hands. , 
"Coming  in  a  moment,  Sam,"  she  said,  and  rose. 
"It  must  be  very  late:  Sam  is  home.   We  would 
better  go  back  to  the  house." 

"Don't,"  I  begged  her.  "Anchovies  and  ju 
leps  and  Sam  will  go  on  for  ever,  and  I  have  you 
such  a  little  time.  I  suppose  I  am  only  one  of 
a  dozen  or  so,  but — you  are  the  only  girl  in  the 
world.  You  know  I  love  you,  don't  you,  dear?" 

Sam  was  whistling,  an  irritating  bird  call, 
over  and  over.  She  pursed  her  red  lips  and  an 
swered  him  in  kind.  It  was  more  than  I  could 
endure. 

"Sam  or  no  Sam,"  I  said  firmly,  "I  am  going 
to  kiss  you !" 

But  Sam's  voice  came  strident  through  the 
megaphone,  "Be  good,  you  two,"  he  bellowed, 
"I've  got  the  binoculars!"  And  so,  under  fire, 
we  walked  sedately  back  to  the  house.  My  pulses 
were  throbbing — the  little  swish  of  her  dress  be- 


824.    THE    MAN    IN   LOWER   TEN 

side  me  on  the  grass  was  pain  and  ecstasy.  1 
had  but  to  put  out  my  hand  to  touch  her,  and 
I  dared  not. 

Sam,  armed  with  a  megaphone  and  field 
glasses,  bent  over  the  rail  and  watched  us  with 
gleeful  malignity. 

"Home  early,  aren't  you?" Alison  called, when 
we  reached  the  steps. 

"Led  a  club  when  my  partner  had  doubled  no- 
trumps,  and  she  fainted.  Damn  the  heart  con 
vention!"  he  said  cheerfully.  "The  others  are 
not  here  yet." 

Three  hours  later  I  went  up  to  bed.  I  had 
not  seen  Alison  alone  again.  The  noise  was  at 
its  height  below,  and  I  glanced  down  into  the 
garden,  still  bright  in  the  moonlight.  Leaning 
against  a  tree,  and  staring  interestedly  into  the 
billiard  room,  was  Johnson. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

IN  THE  DINING-ROOM 

THAT  was  Saturday  night,  two  weeks  after 
the  wreck.  The  previous  five  days  had 
been  full  of  swift-following  events — the  woman 
in  the  house  next  door,  the  picture  in  the  theater 
of  a  man  about  to  leap  from,  the  doomed  train, 
the  dinner  at  the  Dallases,  and  Richey's  discov 
ery  that  Alison  was  the  girl  in  the  case.  In 
quick  succession  had  come  our  visit  to  the  Carter 
place,  the  finding  of  the  rest  of  the  telegram,  my 
seeing  Alison  there,  and  the  strange  interview 
with  Mrs.  Conway.  The  Cresson  trip  stood  out 
in  my  memory  for  its  serio-comic  horrors  and  its 
one  real  thrill.  Then — the  discovery  by  the 
police  of  the  sealskin  bag  and  the  bit  of  chain; 
Hotchkiss  producing  triumphantly  Stuart  for 
Sullivan  and  his  subsequent  discomfiture;  Mc- 
Knight  at  the  station  with  Alison,  and  later 
the  confession  that  he  was  out  of  the  running. 
325 


'826    THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

And  yet,  when  I  thought  it  all  over,  the  entire 
week  and  its  events  were  two  sides  of  a  triangle 
that  was  narrowing  rapidly  to  an  apex,  a  point. 
And  the  said  apex  was  at  that  moment  in  the 
drive  below  my  window,  resting  his  long  legs  by 
sitting  on  a  carriage  block,  and  smoking  a  pipe 
that  made  the  night  hideous.  The  sense  of  the 
ridiculous  is  very  close  to  the  sense  of  tragedy. 
I  opened  my  screen  and  whistled,  and  Johnson 
looked  up  and  grinned.  We  said  nothing.  I  held 
up  a  handful  of  cigars,  he  extended  his  hat,  and 
when  I  finally  went  to  sleep,  it  was  to  a  soothing 
breeze  that  wafted  in  salt  air  and  a  faint  aroma 
of  good  tobacco.  I  was  thoroughly  tired,  but  I 
slept  restlessly,  dreaming  of  two  detectives  with 
Pittsburg  warrants  being  held  up  by  Hotchkiss 
at  the  point  of  a  splint,  while  Alison  fastened 
their  hands  with  a  chain  that  was  broken  and 
much  too  short.  I  was  roused  about  dawn  by  a 
light  rap  at  the  door,  and,  opening  it,  I  found  j 
Forbes,  in  a  pair  of  trousers  and  a  pa  jama  coat. 
He  was  as  pleasant  as  most  fleshy  people  are 
when  they  have  to  get  up  at  night,  and  he  said 
the  telephone  had  been  ringing  for  an  hour,  and 


IN    THE    DINING-ROOM          827 

he  didn't  know  why  somebody  else  in  the  blank- 
ety-blank  Louse  couldn't  have  heard  it.  He 
wouldn't  get  to  sleep  until  noon. 

As  he  was  palpably  asleep  on  his  feet,  I  left 
him  grumbling  and  went  to  the  telephone.  It 
proved  to  be  Richey,  who  had  found  me  by  the 
simple  expedient  of  tracing  Alison,  and  he  was 
jubilant. 

"You'll  have  to  come  back,"  he  said.  "Got  a 
railroad  schedule  there  ?" 

"I  don't  sleep  with  one  in  my  pocket,"  I  re 
torted,  "but  if  you'll  hold  the  line  I'll  call  out  the 
window  to  Johnson.  He's  probably  got  one." 

"Johnson !"  I  could  hear  the  laugh  with 
which  McKnight  comprehended  the  situation. 
He  was  still  chuckling  when  I  came  back. 

"Train  to  Richmond  at  six-thirty  A.  M.,"  I 
said.  "What  time  is  it  now  ?" 

"Four.  Listen,  Lollie.  We've  got  him.  Do 
you  hear?  Through  the  woman  at  Baltimore. 
Then — the  other  woman,  the  lady  of  the  restau 
rant" — he  was  obviously  avoiding  names — "she 
is  playing  our  cards  for  us.  No — I  don't  know 
why,  and  I  don't  care.  But  you  be  at  the  Incu- 


328    THE   MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

bator  to-night  at  eight  o'clock.     If  you  can't 
shake  Johnson,  bring  him,  bless  him." 

To  this  day  I  believe  the  Sam  Forbeses  have 
not  recovered  from  the  surprise  of  my  unexpect- , 
ed  arrival,  nry  one  appearance  at  dinner  in  Gran 
ger's  clothes,  and  the  note  on  my  dresser  which 
informed  them  the  next  morning  that  I  had 
folded  my  tents  like  the  Arabs  and  silently  stolen 
away.  For  at  half  after  five  Johnson  and  I,  the 
former  as  uninquisitive  as  ever,  were  on  our  way 
through  the  dust  to  the  station,  three  miles  away, 
and  by  four  that  afternoon  we  were  in  Washing 
ton.  The  journey  had  been  uneventful.  John 
son  relaxed  under  the  influence  of  my  tobacco, 
and  spoke  at  some  length  on  the  latest  improve 
ments  in  gallows,  dilating  on  the  absurdity  of 
cutting  out  the  former  free  passes  to  see  the 
affair  in  operation.  I  remember,  too,  that  he 
mentioned  the  curious  anomaly  that  permits  a 
man  about  to  be  hanged  to  eat  a  hearty  meal.  I 
did  not  enjoy  my  dinner  that  night. 

Before  we  got  into  Washington  I  had  made 
an  arrangement  with  Johnson  to  surrender  my 
self  at  two  the  following  afternoon.  Also,  I 


IN   THE    DINING-ROOM          329 

had  wired  to  Alison,  asking  her  if  she  would 
carry  out  the  contract  she  had  made.  The  de 
tective  saw  me  home,  and  left  me  there. 

Mrs.  Klopton  received  me  with  dignified  re-j 
serve.     The  very  tone  in  which  she  asked  me 
when  I  would  dine  told  me  that  something  was 
wrong. 

"Now — what  is  it,  Mrs.  Klopton?"  I  demand 
ed  finally,  when  she  had  informed  me,  in  a  patient 
and  long-suffering  tone,  that  she  felt  worn  out 
and  thought  she  needed  a  rest. 

"When  I  lived  with  Mr.  Justice  Springer,"  she 
began  acidly,  her  mending-basket  in  her  hands, 
"it  was  an  orderly,  well-conducted  household. 
You  can  ask  any  of  the  neighbors.  Meals  were 
cooked  and,  what's  more,  they  were  eaten;  there 
was  none  of  this  'here  one  day  and  gone  the  next* 
business." 

"Nonsense,"  I  observed.  "You're  tired,  that's 
all,  Mrs.  Klopton.  And  I  wish  you  would  go 
out ;  I  want  to  bathe." 

"That's  not  all,"  she  said  with  dignity,  'from 
the  doorway.  "Women  coming  and  going  here, 
women  whose  shoes  I  am  not  fit — I  mean,  women 


who  are  not  fit  to  touch  my  shoes — coming  here 
as  insolent  as  you  please,  and  asking  for  you." 

"Good  heavens !"  I  exclaimed.  "What  did  you 
tell  them — her,  whichever  it  was  ?" 

"Told  her  you  were  sick  in  a  hospital  and 
wouldn't  be  out  for  a  year !"  she  said  triumph 
antly.  "And  when  she  said  she  thought  she'd 
come  in  and  wait  for  you,  I  slammed  the  door  on 
her." 

"What  time  was  she  here  ?" 

"Late  last  night.  And  she  had  a  light-haired 
man  across  the  street.  If  she  thought  I  didn't 
see  him,  she  don't  know  me."  Then  she  closed 
the  door  and  left  me  to  my  bath  and  my  reflec 
tions. 

At  five  minutes  before  eight  I  was  at  the  Incu 
bator,  where  I  found  Hotchkiss  and  McKnighL 
They  were  bending  over  a  table,  on  which  lay 
McKnight's  total  armament — a  pair  of  pistols, 
,an  elephant  gun  and  an  old  cavalry  saber. 

"Draw  up  a  chair  and  help  yourself  to  pie," 
he  said,  pointing  to  the  arsenal.  "This  is  for  the 
benefit  of  our  friend  Hotchkiss  here,  who  says  he 
ie  a  small  man  and  fond  of  life." 


IN    THE   DINING-ROOM         881 

Hotchkiss,  who  had  been  trying  to  get;  the 
end  of  a  cartridge  into  the  barrel  of  one 
of  the  revolvers,  straightened  himself  and 
mopped  his  face. 

"We  have  desperate  people  to  handle,"  he  said 
pompously,  "and  we  may  need  desperate  means." 

"Hotchkiss  is  like  the  small  boy  whose  one  am 
bition  was  to  have  people  grow  ashen  and  tremble 
at  the  mention  of  his  name,"  McKnight  jibed. 
But  they  were  serious  enough,  both  of  them, 
under  it  all,  and  when  they  had  told  me  what 
they  planned,  I  was  serious,  too. 

"You're  compounding  a  felony,"  I  remon 
strated,  when  they  had  explained.  "I'm  not 
eager  to  be  locked  away,  but,  by  Jove,  to  offer 
her  the  stolen  notes  in  exchange  for  Sullivan !" 

"We  haven't  got  either  of  them,  you  know," 
McKnight  remonstrated,  "and  we  won't  have,  if 
we  don't  start.  Come  along,  Fido,"  to  Hotch 
kiss. 

The  plan  was  simplicity  itself.  'According  to 
Hotchkiss,  Sullivan  was  to  meet  Bronson  at  Mrs. 
Conway's  apartment,  at  eight-thirty  that  night, 
with  the  notes.  He  was  to  be  paid  there  and  the 


papers  destroyed.  "But  just  before  that  inter 
esting  finale,"  McKnight  ended,  "we  will  walk  in, 
take  the  notes,  grab  Sullivan,  and  give  the  police* 
a  jolt  that  will  put  them  out  of  the  count." 

I  suppose  not  one  of  us,  slewing  around  cor 
ners  in  the  machine  that  night,  had  the  faintest 
doubt  that  we  were  on  the  right  track,  or  that 
Fate,  scurvy  enough  before,  was  playing  into 
our  hands  at  last.  Little  Hotchkiss  was  in  a 
state  of  fever;  he  alternately  twitched  and  ex 
amined  the  revolver,  and  a  fear  that  the  two 
movements  might  be  synchronous  kept  me  un 
easy.  He  produced  and  dilated  on  the  scrap  of 
pillow  slip  from  the  wreck,  and  showed  me  the 
stiletto,  with  its  point  in  cotton  batting  for 
safekeeping.  And  in  the  intervals  he  implored 
Richey  not  to  make  such  fine  calculations  at  the 
corners. 

We  were  all  grave  enough  and  very  quiet, 
jhowever,  when  we  reached  the  large  building 
where  Mrs.  Conway  had  her  apartment.  Mc 
Knight  left  the  power  on,  in  case  we  might  want 
to  make  a  quick  get-away,  and  Hotchkiss  gave 
a  final  look  at  the  revolver.  I  had  no  weapon. 


IN    THE    DINING-ROOM          3,33 

Somehow  it  all  seemed  melodramatic  to  the  verge 
of  farce.  In  the  doorway  Hotchkiss  was  a  half 
dozen  feet  ahead;  Richey  fell  back  beside  me. 
He  dropped  his  affectation  of  gayety,  and  I 
thought  he  looked  tired.  "Same  old  Sam,  I  sup 
pose  ?"  he  asked. 

"Same,  only  more  of  him." 

"I  suppose  Alison  was  there?  How  is  she?" 
he  inquired  irrelevantly. 

"Very  well.  I  did  not  see  her  this  morning." 
Hotchkiss  was  waiting  near  the  elevator.  Mc- 
Knight  put  his  hand  on  my  arm.  "Now,  look 
here,  old  man,"  he  said,  "I've  got  two  arms  and  a 
revolver,  and  you've  got  one  arm  and  a  splint. 
If  Hotchkiss  is  right,  and  there  is  a  row,  you 
crawl  under  a  table." 

"The  deuce  I  will !"  I  declared  scornfully. 

We  crowded  out  of  the  elevator  at  the  fourth 
floor,  and  found  ourselves  in  a  rather  theatrical 
hallway  of  draperies  and  armor.  It  was  very^ 
quiet;  we  stood  uncertainly  after  the  car  had 
gone,  and  looked  at  the  two  or  three  doors  in 
sight.  They  were  heavy,  covered  with  metal,  and 
sound  proof.  From  somewhere  above  came  the 


834    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

metallic  accuracy  of  a  player-piano,  and 
through  the  open  window  we  could  hear — or  feel 
— the  throb  of  the  Cannonball's  engine. 

"Well,  Sherlock,"  McKnight  said,  "what's  the 
next  move  in  the  game?  Is  it  our  jump,  or 
theirs  ?  You  brought  us  here." 

None  of  us  knew  just  what  to  do  next.  No 
sound  of  conversation  penetrated  the  heavy 
doors.  We  waited  uneasily  for  some  minutes, 
and  Hotchkiss  looked  at  his  watch.  Then  he  put 
it  to  his  ear. 

"Good  gracious!"  he  exclaimed,  his  head 
cocked  on  one  side,  "I  believe  it  has  stopped.  I'm 
afraid  we  are  late." 

We  were  late.  My  watch  and  Hotchkiss' 
agreed  at  nine  o'clock,  and,  with  the  discovery 
that  our  man  might  have  come  and  gone,  our 
zest  in  the  adventure  began  to  flag.  McKnight 
motioned  us  away  from  the  door  and  rang  the 
bell.  There  was  no  response,  no  sound  within. 
He  rang  it  twice,  the  last  time  long  and  vigor 
ously,  without  result.  Then  he  turned  and  looked 
at  us. 

"I   don't  half   like   this,"   he   said.      "That 


IN   THE    DINING-ROOM         333 

woman  is  in ;  you  heard  me  ask  the  elevator  boj. 
For  two  cents  I'd — " 

I  had  seen  it  when  he  did.  The  door  was  ajar 
about  an  inch,  and  a  narrow  wedge  of  rose-; 
colored  light  showed  beyond.  I  pushed  the  door 
a  little  and  listened.  Then,  with  both  men  at 
my  heels,  I  stepped  into  the  private  corridor  of 
the  apartment  and  looked  around.  It  was  a 
square  reception  hall,  with  rugs  on  the  floor,  a 
tall  mahogany  rack  for  hats,  and  a  couple  of 
chairs.  A  lantern  of  rose-colored  glass  and  a 
desk  light  over  a  writing-table  across  made  the 
room  bright  and  cheerful.  It  was  empty. 

None  of  us  was  comfortable.  The  place  was 
full  of  feminine  trifles  that  made  us  feel  the 
weakness  of  our  position.  Some  such  instinct 
made  McKnight  suggest  division. 

"We  look  like  an  invading  army,"  he  said. 
"If  she's  here  alone,  we  will  startle  her  into  a 
spasm.     One  of  us  could  take  a  look  aroundj 
and—" 

"What  was  that?  Didn't  you  hear  some 
thing?" 

The  sound,  whatever  it  had  been,  wa»  not  re- 


336    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

peated.    We  went  awkwardly  out  into  the  hall, 
very  uncomfortable,   all  of  us,   and  flipped   a 
coin.     The  choice  fell  to  me,  which  was  right 
Jenough,  for  the  affair  was  mine,  primarily. 

"Wait  just  inside  the  door,"  I  directed,  "and 
if  Sullivan  comes,  or  anybody  that  answers  his 
description,  grab  him  without  ceremony  and  ask 
him  questions  afterwards." 

The  apartment,  save  in  the  hallway,  was  un- 
lighted.  By  one  of  those  freaks  of  arrangement 
possible  only  in  the  modern  flat,  I  found  the 
kitchen  first,  and  was  struck  a  smart  and  unex 
pected  blow  by  a  swinging  door.  I  carried  a 
handful  of  matches,  and  by  the  time  I  had  passed 
through  a  butler's  pantry  and  a  refrigerator 
room  I  was  completely  lost  in  the  darkness. 
Until  then  the  situation  had  been  merely  uncom 
fortable  ;  suddenly  it  became  grisly.  From  some 
where  near  came  a  long-sustained  groan,  fol 
lowed  almost  instantly  by  the  crash  of  some 
thing — glass  or  china — on  the  floor. 

I  struck  a  fresh  match,  and  fo'_;id  myself  in 
a  narrow  rear  hallway.  Behind  me  was  the  door 
by  which  I  must  have  come;  with  a  keen  desire 


IN    THE    DINING-ROOM          337 

to  get  back  to  the  place  I  had  started  from,  I 
opened  the  door  and  attempted  to  cross  the  room. 
I  thought  I  had  kept  my  sense  of  direction,  but 
I  crashed  without  warning  into  what,  from  the 
resulting  jangle,  was  the  dining-table,  probably 
laid  for  dinner.  I  cursed  my  stupidity  in  get 
ting  into  such  a  situation,  and  I  cursed  my 
nerves  for  making  my  hand  shake  when  I  tried 
to  strike  a  match.  The  groan  had  not  been 
repeated. 

I  braced  myself  against  the  table  and  struck 
the  match  sharply  against  the  sole  of  my  shoe. 
It  flickered  faintly  and  went  out.  And  then, 
without  the  slightest  warning,  another  dish  went 
off  the  table.  It  fell  with  a  thousand  splinter- 
ings;  the  very  air  seemed  broken  into  crashing 
waves  of  sound.  I  stood  still,  braced  against  the 
table,  holding  the  red  end  of  the  dying  match, 
and  listened.  I  had  not  long  to  wait ;  the  groan 
came  again,  and  I  recognized  it,  the  cry  of  a  dog 
in  straits.  I  breathed  again. 

"Come,  old  fellow,"  I  said.  "Come  on,  old 
man.  Let's  have  a  look  at  you." 

I  could  hear  the  thud  of  his  tail  on  the  floor, 


338    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

but  he  did  not  move.  He  only  whimpered 
There  is  something  companionable  in  the  pres 
ence  of  a  dog,  and  I  fancied  this  dog  in  trouble. 
Slowly  I  began  to  work  my  way  around  the  table 
toward  him. 

"Good  boy,"  I  said,  as  he  whimpered.  "We'll 
find  the  light,  which  ought  to  be  somewhere  o» 
other  around  here,  and  then — 

I  stumbled  over  something,  and  I  drew  back 
my  foot  almost  instantly.  "Did  I  step  on  you, 
old  man?"  I  exclaimed,  and  bent  to  pat  him.  I 
remember  straightening  suddenly  and  hearing 
the  dog  pad  softly  toward  me  around  the  table. 
I  recall  even  that  I  had  put  the  matches  down  and 
could  not  find  them.  Then,  with  a  bursting 
horror  of  the  room  and  its  contents,  of  the  gib 
bering  dark  around  me,  I  turned  and  made  foa 
the  door  by  which  I  had  entered. 

I  could  not  find  it.  I  felt  along  the  endless 
wainscoting,  past  miles  of  wall.  The  dog  was 
beside  me,  I  think,  but  he  was  part  and  parcel 
now,  to  my  excited  mind,  with  the  Thing  under 
the  table.  And  when,  after  aeons  of  search,  1 
found  a  knob  and  stumbled  into  the  reception 


IN    THE    DINING-ROOM          339 

hall,  I  was  as  nearly  in  a  panic  as  any  man 
could  be. 

I  was  myself  again  in  a  second,  and  by  the 
flight  from  the  hall  I  led  the  way  back  to  the 
tragedy  I  had  stumbled  on.  Bronson  still  sat 
at  the  table,  his  elbows  propped  on  it,  his  cigar 
ette  still  lighted,  burning  a  hole  in  the  cloth. 
Partly  under  the  table  lay  Mrs.  Conway,  face 
down.  The  dog  stood  over  her  and  wagged  his 
tail. 

McKnight  pointed  silently  to  a  large  copper 
ash-tray,  filled  with  ashes  and  charred  bits  of 
paper. 

"The  notes,  probably,"  he  said  ruefully.  "He 
got  them  after  all,  and  burned  them  before  her. 
It  was  more  than  she  could  stand.  Stabbed  him 
first  and  then  herself." 

Hotchkiss  got  up  and  took  off  his  hat.  "They 
are  dead,"  he  announced  solemnly,  and  took  his 

note-book  out  of  his  hatband. 

»• 

McKnight  and  I  did  the  only  thing  we  could 
think  of — drove  Hotchkiss  and  the  dog  out  of 
the  room,  and  closed  and  locked  the  door.  "It's 
a  matter  for  the  police,"  McKnight  asserted 


340    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

"I  suppose  you've  got  an  officer  tied  to  you  soipe- 
where,  Lawrence  ?  You  usually  have." 

We  left  Hotchldss  in  charge  and  went  down 
stairs.  It  was  McKnight  who  first  saw  Johnson, 
leaning  against  a  park  railing  across  the  street, 
and  called  him  over.  We  told  him  in  a  few  words 
what  we  had  found,  and  he  grinned  at  me  cheer- 
fully. 

"After  while,  in  a  few  weeks  or  months,  Mr. 
Blakeley,"  he  said,  "when  you  get  tired  of 
monkeying  around  with  the  blood-stain  and  fin 
ger-print  specialist  up-stairs,  you  come  to  me. 
I've  had  that  fellow  you  want  under  surveillance 
for  ten  days !" 


CHAPTER   XXX 

FINER  DETAILS 

AT  ten  minutes  before  two  the  following  day, 
Monday,  I  arrived  at  my  office.  I  had 
spent  the  morning  putting  my  affairs  in  shape, 
and  in  a  trip  to  the  stable.  The  afternoon  would 
see  me  either  a  free  man  or  a  prisoner  for  an  in 
definite  length  of  time,  and,  in  spite  of  John 
son's  promise  to  produce  Sullivan,  I  was  more 
prepared  for  the  latter  than  the  former. 

Blobs  was  watching  for  me  outside  the  door, 
and  it  was  clear  that  he  was  in  a  state  of  excite 
ment  bordering  on  delirium.  He  did  nothing, 
however,  save  to  tip  me  a  wink  that  meant  "As 
man  to  man,  I'm  for  you."  I  was  too  much  en 
grossed  either  to  reprove  him  or  return  the 
courtesy,  but  I  heard  him  follow  me  down  the 
hall  to  the  small  room  where  we  keep  outgrown 
law  books,  typewriter  supplies  and,  incidentally, 
341 


THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

our  wraps.  I  was  wondering  vaguely  if  I  would 
ever  hang  my  hat  on  its  nail  again,  when  the 
door  closed  behind  me.  It  shut  firmly,  without 
any  particular  amount  of  sound,  and  I  was  leffe 
in  the  dark.  I  groped  my  way  to  it,  irritably, 
to  find  it  locked  on  the  outside.  I  shook  it  fran 
tically,  and  was  rewarded  by  a  sibilant  whisper 
through  the  keyhole. 

"Keep  quiet,"  Blobs  was  saying  huskily. 
"You're  in  deadly  peril.  The  police  are  waiting 
in  your  office,  three  of  'em.  I'm  goin*  to  lock  the 
whole  bunch  in  and  throw  the  key  out  of  the 
window." 

"Come  back  here,  you  imp  of  Satan !"  I  called 
furiously,  but  I  could  hear  him  speeding  down 
the  corridor,  and  the  slam  of  the  outer  office  door 
by  which  he  always  announced  his  presence. 
And  so  I  stood  there  in  that  ridiculous  cupboard, 
hot  with  the  heat  of  a  steaming  September  day, 
musty  with  the  smell  of  old  leather  bindings, 
littered  with  broken  overshoes  and  handleless 
umbrellas.  I  was  apoplectic  with  rage  one  min 
ute,  and  choked  with  laughter  the  next.  It 
seemed  an  hour  before  Blobs  came  back. 


FINER    DETAILS  343 

He  came  without  haste,  strutting  with  new 
dignity,  and  paused  outside  my  prbon  door. 

"Well,  I  guess  that  will  hold  \  hem  for  a  while," 
»he  remarked  comfortably,  and  proceeded  to  turn 
the  key.  "I've  got  'em  fastened  up  lit',-  sardines 
in  a  can !"  he  explained,  working  TV;C)I  the  lock. 
"Gee  whiz !  you'd  ought  to  hear  'en{  i"  When  he 
got  his  breath  after  the  shaking  I  gave  him,  he 
began  to  splutter.  "How'd  I  know?"  he  de 
manded  sulkily.  "You  nearly  broke  your  neck 
gettin'  away  the  other  time.  And  I  haven't  got 
the  old  key.  It's  lost." 

"Where's  it  lost?"  I  demanded,  with  another 
gesture  toward  his  coat  collar. 

"Down  the  elevator  shaft."  There  was  a 
gleam  of  indignant  satisfaction  through  his  tears 
of  rage  and  humiliation. 

And  so,  while  he  hunted  the  key  in  the  debris 
at  the  bottom  of  the  shaft,  I  quieted  his  prisoners 
with  the  assurance  that  the  lock  had  slipped,  and 
that  they  would  be  free  as  lords  as  soon  as  we 
could  find  the  janitor  with  a  pass-key.  Stuart 
went  down  finally  and  discovered  Blobs,  with  the 
key  in  his  pocket,  telling  the  engineer  how  he 


344    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

had  tried  to  save  me  from  arrest  and  failed. 
When  Stuart  came  up  he  was  almost  cheerful, 
but  Blobs  did  not  appear  again  that  day. 

Simultaneous  with  the  finding  of  the  key  came 
Hotchkiss,  and  we  went  in  together.  I  shook 
hands  with  two  men  who,  with  Hotchkiss,  made 
a  not  very  animated  group.  The  taller  one,  an 
oldish  man,  lean  and  hard,  announced  his  errand 
at  once. 

"A  Pittsburg  warrant?"  I  inquired,  unlock 
ing  my  cigar  drawer. 

"Yes.  Allegheny  County  has  assumed  juris 
diction,  the  exact  locality  where  the  crime  was 
committed  being  in  doubt."  He  seemed  to  be 
the  spokesman.  The  other,  shorter  and  rotund, 
kept  an  amiable  silence.  "We  hope  you  will  see 
the  wisdom  of  waiving  extradition,"  he  went  on. 
"It  will  save  time." 

"I'll  come,  of  course,"  I  agreed.  "The  sooner 
the  better.  But  I  want  you  to  give  me  an  hour 
here,  gentlemen.  I  think  we  can  interest  you. 
Have  a  cigar?" 

The  lean  man  took  a  cigar;  the  rotund  man 
took  three,  putting  two  in  his  pocket. 


FINER    DETAILS 

"How  about  the  catch  of  that  door?"  he  in 
quired  jovially.  "Any  danger  of  it  going  off 
again?"  Really,  considering  the  circumstances, 
they  were  remarkably  cheerful.  Hotchkiss,  how 
ever,  was  not.  He  paced  the  floor  uneasily,  his 
hands  under  his  coat-tails.  The  arrival  of  Mc- 
Knight  created  a  diversion;  he  carried  a  long 
package  and  a  corkscrew,  and  shook  hands  with 
the  police  and  opened  the  bottle  with  a  single 
gesture. 

"I  always  want  something  to  cheer  on  these 
occasions,"  he  said.  "Where's  the  water,  Blake- 
ley?  Everybody  ready?"  Then  in  French  he 
toasted  the  two  detectives. 

"To  your  eternal  discomfiture,"  he  said,  bow 
ing  ceremoniously.  "May  you  go  home  and 
never  come  back !  If  you  take  Monsieur  Blake- 
ley  with  you,  I  hope  you  choke." 

The  lean  man  nodded  gravely.    "Prosit,"  he 
said.     But  the  fat  one  leaned  back  and  laughed] 
consumedly. 

Hotchkiss  finished  a  mental  synopsis  of  his 
position,  and  put  down  his  glass.  "Gentlemen," 
he  said  pompously,  "within  five  minutes  the  man 


846    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

you  want  will  be  here,  a  murderer  caught  in  a 
net  of  evidence  so  fine  that  a  mosquito  could  not 
,  -jet  through." 

The  detectives  glanced  at  each  other  solemnly. 
Had  they  not  in  their  possession  a  sealskin  bag 
containing  a  wallet  and  a  bit  of  gold  chain, 
which,  by  putting  the  crime  on  me,  would  leave 
a  gap  big  enough  for  Sullivan  himself  to  crawl 
through  ? 

"Why  don't  you  say  your  little  speech  before 
Johnson  brings  the  other  man,  Lawrence?"  Mc- 
Knight  inquired.  "They  won't  believe  you,  but 
it  will  help  them  to  understand  what  is  coming." 

"You  understand,  of  course,"  the  lean  man  put 
in  gravely,  "that  what  you  say  may  be  used 
against  you." 

"I'll  take  the  risk,"  I  answered  impatiently. 

It  took  some  time  to  tell  the  story  of  my  worse 
than  useless  trip  to  Pittsburg,  and  its  sequel. 
,  They  listened  gravely,  without  interruption. 

"Mr.  Hotchkiss  here,"  I  finished,  "believes 
that  the  man  Sullivan,  whom  we  are  momentarily 
expecting,  committed  the  crime.  Mr.  McKnight 
is  inclined  to  implicate  Mrs.  Conway,  who 


FINER    DETAILS  347 

stabbed  Bronson  and  then  herself  last  night.  As 
for  myself,  I  am  open  to  conviction." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  the  stout  detective  quiz 
zically.  And  then  Alison  was  announced.  My 
impulse  to  go  out  and  meet  her  was  forestalled 
by  the  detectives,  who  rose  when  I  did.  Mc- 
Knight,  therefore,  brought  her  in,  and  I  met  her 
at  the  door. 

"I  have  put  you  to  a  great  deal  of  trouble,"  I 
said  contritely,  when  I  saw  her  glance  around 
the  room.  "I  wish  I  had  not — " 

"It  is  only  right  that  I  should  come,"  she  re 
plied,  looking  up  at  me.  "I  am  the  unconscious 
cause  of  most  of  it,  I  am  afraid.  Mrs.  Dallas  is 
going  to  wait  in  the  outer  office." 

I  presented  Hotchkiss  and  the  two  detectives, 
who  eyed  her  with  interest.  In  her  poise,  her 
beauty,  even  in  her  gown,  I  fancy  she  represent 
ed  a  new  type  to  them.  They  remained  standing 
until  she  sat  down. 

"I  have  brought  the  necklace,"  she  began, 
holding  out  a  white-wrapped  box,  "as  you  asked 
me  to." 

I  passed  it,  unopened,  to  the  detectives.    "The 


848    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN! 

necklace  from  which  was  broken  the  fragment 
you   found  in  the  sealskin  bag,"  I  explained 

"Miss  West  found  it  on  the  floor  of  the  car,  near 

i 

lower  ten." 

"When  did  you  find  it?"  asked  the  lean  de 
tective,  bending  forward. 

"In  the  morning,  not  long  before  the  wreck." 

"Did  you  ever  see  it  before  ?" 

"I  am  not  certain,"  she  replied.  "I  have  seen 
one  very  much  like  it."  Her  tone  was  troubled. 
She  glanced  at  me  as  if  for  help,  but  I  was  pow 
erless. 

"Where?"  The  detective  was  watching  her 
closely. 

At  that  moment  there  came  an  interruption. 
The  door  opened  without  ceremony,  and  Johnson 
ushered  in  a  tall,  blond  man,  a  stranger  to  all  of 
us.  I  glanced  at  Alison ;  she  was  pale,  but  com 
posed  and  scornful.  She  met  the  new-comer's 
eyes  full,  and,  caught  unawares,  he  took  a  hasty; 
backward  step. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Sullivan,"  McKnight  beamed 
cordially.  "Have  a  cigar?  I  beg  your  pardon, 
[Alison,  do  you  mind  this  smoke?" 


'FINER   DETAILS  849 

''Not  at  all,"  she  said  composedly.  Sullivan 
had  had  a  second  to  sound  his  bearings. 

"No — no,  thanks,"  he  mumbled.  "If  you  will 
be  good  enough  to  explain — " 

"But  that's  what  you're  to  do,"  McKnight 
said  cheerfully,  pulling  up  a  chair.  "You've  got 
the  most  attentive  audience  you  could  ask.  These 
two  gentlemen  are  detectives  from  Pittsburg, 
and  we  are  all  curious  to  know  the  finer  details 
of  what  happened  on  the  car  Ontario  two  weeks 
ago,  the  night  your  father-in-law  was  mur 
dered."  Sullivan  gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair. 
"We  are  not  prejudiced,  either.  The  gentlemen 
from  Pittsburg  are  betting  on  Mr.  Blakeley, 
over  there.  Mr.  Hotchkiss,  the  gentleman  by 
the  radiator,  is  ready  to  place  ten  to  one  odds  on 
you.  And  some  of  us  have  still  other  theories." 

"Gentlemen,"  Sullivan  said  slowly,  "I  give  you 
my  word  of  honor  that  I  did  not  kill  Simon  Har 
rington,  and  that  I  do  not  know  who  did." 

"Fiddlededee !"  cried  Hotchkiss,  bustling  for 
ward.  "Why,  I  can  tell  you — "  But  McKnight 
pushed  him  firmly  into  a  chair  and  held  him 
there. 


850    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

"I  am  ready  to  plead  guilty  to  the  larceny," 
Sullivan  went  on.  "I  took  Mr.  Blakeley's 
clothes,  I  admit.  If  I  can  reimburse  him  in  any 
way  for  the  inconvenience — " 

The  stout  detective  was  listening  with  his 
mouth  open.  "Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  de 
manded,  "that  you  got  into  Mr.  Blakeley's  berth, 
as  he  contends,  took  his  clothes  and  forged  notes, 
and  left  the  train  before  the  wreck  ?" 

"Yes." 

"The  notes,  then?" 

"I  gave  them  to  Bronson  yesterday.  Much 
good  they  did  him !"  bitterly.  We  were  all  silent 
for  a  moment.  The  two  detectives  were  adjust 
ing  themselves  with  difficulty  to  a  new  point  of 
view;  Sullivan  was  looking  dejectedly  at  the 
floor,  his  hands  hanging  loose  between  his  knees. 
I  was  watching  Alison ;  from  where  I  stood,  be 
hind  her,  I  could  almost  touch  the  soft  hair 
I  behind  her  ear. 

"I  have  no  intention  of  pressing  any  charge 
against  you,"  I  said  with  forced  civility,  for  my 
hands  were  itching  to  get  at  him,  "if  you  will 


FINER    DETAILS  351 

give  us  a  clear  account  of  what  happened  on  the 
Ontario  that  night." 

Sullivan  raised  his  handsome,  haggard  head 
and  looked  around  at  me.  "I've  seen  you  before, 
haven't  I?"  he  asked.  "Weren't  you  an  unin 
vited  guest  at  the  Laurels  a  few  days — or  nights 
— ago?  The  cat,  you  remember,  and  the  rug 
that  slipped?" 

"I  remember,"  I  said  shortly.  He  glanced 
from  me  to  Alison  and  quickly  away. 

"The  truth  can't  hurt  me,"  he  said,  "but  it's 
devilish  unpleasant.  Alison,  you  know  all  this. 
You  would  better  go  out." 

His  use  of  her  name  crazed  me.  I  stepped  in 
front  of  her  and  stood  over  him.  "You  will  not 
bring  Miss  West  into  the  conversation,"  I 
threatened,  "and  she  will  stay  if  she  wishes." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  he  said  with  assumed  indif 
ference. 

Hotchkiss  just  then  escaped  from  Richey'fc, 
grasp  and  crossed  the  room. 

"Did  you  ever  wear  glasses?"  he  asked 
eagerly. 


352    THE    MAN   IN   LOWER   TEN 

"Never."  Sullivan  glanced  with  some  con 
tempt  at  mine. 

"I'd  better  begin  by  going  back  a  little,"  he 
j  went  on  sullenly.  "I  suppose  you  know  I  was 
married  to  Ida  Harrington  about  five  years  ago. 
She  was  a  good  girl,  and  I  thought  a  lot  of  her. 
But  her  father  opposed  the  marriage — he'd 
never  liked  me,  and  he  refused  to  make  any  sort 
of  settlement. 

"I  had  thought,  of  course,  that  there  would 
be  money,  and  it  was  a  bad  day  when  I  found  out 
I'd  made  a  mistake.  My  sister  was  wild  with 
disappointment.  We  were  pretty  hard  up,  my 
sister  and  I." 

I  was  watching  Alison.  Her  hands  were 
tightly  clasped  in  her  lap,  and  she  was  staring 
out  of  the  window  at  the  cheerless  roof  below. 
She  had  set  her  lips  a  little,  but  that  was  all. 

"You  understand,  of  course,  that  I'm  not  de- 
(f ending  myself,"  went  on  the  sullen  voice.  "The 
day  came  when  old  Harrington  put  us  both  out 
of  the  house  at  the  point  of  a  revolver,  and  I 
threatened — I  suppose  you  know  that,  too — I 
threatened  to  kill  him. 


FINER   DETAILS  853 

"My  sister  and  I  had  hard  times  after  that. 
We  lived  on  the  continent  for  a  while.  I  was  at 
Monte  Carlo  and  she  was  in  Italy.  She  met  a 
young  lady  there,  the  granddaughter  of  a  steel 
manufacturer  and  an  heiress,  and  she  sent  for 
me.  When  I  got  to  Rome  the  girl  was  gone. 
Last  winter  I  was  all  in — social  secretary  to  an 
Englishman,  a  wholesale  grocer  with  a  new  title, 
but  we  had  a  row,  and  I  came  home.  I  went  out 
to  the  Heaton  boys'  ranch  in  Wyoming,  and  met 
Bronson  there.  He  lent  me  money,  and  I've  been 
doing  his  dirty  work  ever  since." 

Sullivan  got  up  then  and  walked  slowly  for 
ward  and  back  as  he  talked,  his  eyes  on  the  faded 
pattern  of  the  office  rug. 

"If  you  want  to  live  in  hell,"  he  said  savagely, 
"put  yourself  in  another  man's  power.  Bronson 
got  into  trouble,  forging  John  Gilmore's  name 
to  those  notes,  and  in  some  way  he  learned  that 
a  man  was  bringing  the  papers  back  to  Wash 
ington  on  the  Flier.  He  even  learned  the  num 
ber  of  his  berth,  and  the  night  before  the  wreck, 
just  as  I  was  boarding  the  train,  I  got  a  tele 
gram," 


354    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

Hotchkiss  stepped  forward  once  more  im 
portantly. 

"Which  read,  I  think:  'Man  with  papers  in 
lower  ten,  car  seven.  Get  them.' ' 

Sullivan  looked  at  the  little  man  with  sulky 
blue  eyes. 

"It  was  something  like  that,  anyhow.  But  it 
was  a  nasty  business,  and  it  made  matters  worse 
that  he  didn't  care  that  a  telegram  which  must 
pass  through  a  half  dozen  hands  was  more  or 
less  incriminating  to  me. 

"Then,  to  add  to  the  unpleasantness  of  my 
position,  just  after  we  boarded  the  train — I  was 
accompanying  my  sister  and  this  young  lady, 
Miss  West — a  woman  touched  me  on  the  sleeve, 
and  I  turned  to  face — my  wife ! 

"That  took  away  my  last  bit  of  nerve.  I  told 
my  sister,  and  you  can  understand  she  was  in  a 
bad  way,  too.  We  knew  what  it  meant.  Ida  had 
heard  that  I  was  going — " 

He  stopped  and  glanced  uneasily  at  Alison. 

"Go  on,"  she  said  coldly.  "It  is  too  late  to 
me.  The  time  to  have  done  that  was  when 

»M_S  your  guest." 


FINER    DETAILS  855 

<cWell,"  he  went  on,  his  eyes  turned  carefully 
away  from  my  face,  which  must  have  presented 
certainly  anything  but  a  pleasant  sight.  "Miss 
West  was  going  to  do  me  the  honor  to  marry  me, 
and—" 

"You  scoundrel!"  I  burst  forth,  thrusting 
past  Alison  West's  chair.  "You — you  infernal 
cur!" 

One  of  the  detectives  got  up  and  stood  be 
tween  us. 

"You  must  remember,  Mr.  Blakeley,  that  you 
are  forcing  this  story  from  this  man.  These 
details  are  unpleasant,  but  important.  You  were 
going  to  marry  this  young  lady,"  he  said,  turn 
ing  to  Sullivan,  "although  you  already  had  a 
wife  living?" 

"It  was  my  sister's  plan,  and  I  was  in  a  bad 

way  for  money.     If  I  could  marry,  secretly,  a 

wealthy  girl  and  go  to  Europe,  it  was  unlikely 

.that  Ida^-that  is,  Mrs.   Sullivan — would  hear 

of  it. 

"So  it  was  more  than  a  shock  to  see  my  wife 
on  the  train,  and  to  realize  from  her  face  that 
she  knew  what  was  going  on.  I  don't  know  yet, 


356    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER   TEN 

unless  some  of  the  servants — well,  never  mind 
that. 

"It  meant  that  the  whole  thing  had  gone  up. 
Old  Harrington  had  carried  a  gun  for  me  for 
years,  and  the  same  train  wouldn't  hold  both  of 
us.  Of  course,  I  thought  that  he  was  in  the 
coach  just  behind  ours." 

Hotchkiss  was  leaning  forward  now,  his  eyes 
narrowed,  his  thin  lips  drawn  to  a  line. 

"Are  you  left-handed,  Mr.  Sullivan?"  he 
asked. 

Sullivan  stopped  in  surprise. 

"No,"  he  said  gruffly.  "Can't  do  anything 
with  my  left  hand."  Hotchkiss  subsided,  crest 
fallen  but  alert.  "I  tore  up  that  cursed  tele 
gram,  but  I  was  afraid  to  throw  the  scraps  away. 
Then  I  looked  around  for  lower  ten.  It  was 
almost  exactly  across — my  berth  was  lower 
seven,  and  it  was,  of  course,  a  bit  of  exceptional 
luck  for  me  that  the  car  was  number  seven." 

"Did  you  tell  your  sister  of  the  telegram  from 
Bronson?"  I,  asked. 

"No.  It  would  do  no  good,  and  she  was  in  ft 
bad  way  without  that  to  make  her  worse." 


FINER    DETAILS  35T 

"Your  sister  was  killed,  I  think."  The  shorter 
detective  took  a  small  package  from  his  pocket 
and  held  it  in  his  hand,  snapping  the  rubber 
band  which  held  it. 

"Yes,  she  was  killed,"  Sullivan  said  soberly. 
"What  I  say  now  can  do  her  no  harm." 

He  stopped  to  push  back  the  heavy  hair  which! 
dropped  over  his  forehead,  and  went  on  more 
connectedly. 

"It  was  late,  after  midnight,  and  we  went  at 
once  to  our  berths.  I  undressed,  and  then  I  lay 
there  for  an  hour,  wondering  how  I  was  going 
to  get  the  notes.  Some  one  in  lower  nine  was 
restless  and  wide  awake,  but  finally  became  quiet.  v 

"The  man  in  ten  was  sleeping  heavily.  I 
could  hear  his  breathing,  and  it  seemed  to  be 
only  a  question  of  getting  across  and  behind  the 
curtains  of  his  berth  without  being  seen.  After 
that,  it  was  a  mere  matter  of  quiet  searching. 

"The  car  became  very  still.  I  was  about  to  try 
for  the  other  berth,  when  some  one  brushed  softlj 
past,  and  I  lay  back  again. 

"Finally,  however,  when  things  had  been  quiet 
for  a  time,  I  got  up,  and  after  looking  along  the 


358    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

aisle,  I  slipped  behind  the  curtains  of  lower  ten. 
You  understand,  Mr.  Blakeley,  that  I  thought 
you  were  in  lower  ten,  with  the  notes." 

I  nodded  curtly. 

"I'm  not  trying  to  defend  myself,"  he  went 
on.  "I  was  ready  to  steal  the  notes — I  had  to. 
But  murder !" 

He  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief. 

"Well,  I  slipped  across  and  behind  the  cur 
tains.  It  was  very  still.  The  man  in  ten  didn't 
move,  although  my  heart  was  thumping  until  I 
thought  he  would  hear  it. 

"I  felt  around  cautiously.  It  was  perfectly 
dark,  and  I  came  across  a  bit  of  chain,  about  as 
long  as  my  finger.  It  seemed  a  queer  thing  to 
find  there,  and  it  was  sticky,  too." 

He  shuddered,  and  I  could  see  Alison's  hands 
clenching  and  unclenching  with  the  strain. 

"All  at  once  it  struck  me  that  the  man  was 
strangely  silent,  and  I  think  I  lost  my  nerve. 
Anyhow,  I  drew  the  curtains  open  a  little,  and 
let  the  light  fall  on  my  hands.  They  were  red, 
blood-red." 

He  leaned  one  hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair, 


FINER    DETAILS  359 

and  was  silent  for  a  moment,  as  though  he  lived 
over  again  the  awful  events  of  that  more  than 
lawful  night. 

The  stout  detective  had  let  his  cigar  go  out; 
he  was  still  drawing  at  it  nervously.  Richey  had 
picked  up  a  paper-weight  and  was  tossing  it 
from  hand  to  hand;  when  it  slipped  and  fell  to 
the  floor,  a  startled  shudder  passed  through  the 
room. 

"There  was  something  glittering  in  there," 
Sullivan  resumed,  "and  on  impulse  I  picked  it 
up.  Then  I  dropped  the  curtains  and  stumbled 
back  to  my  own  berth." 

"Where  you  wiped  your  hands  on  the  bed- 
clothing  and  stuck  the  dirk  into  the  pillow." 
Hotchkiss  was  seeing  his  carefully  built  struc 
ture  crumbling  to  pieces,  and  he  looked  cha 
grined. 

"I  suppose  I  did — I'm  not  very  clear  about 
what  happened  then.  But  when  I  rallied  a  little 
I  saw  a  Russia  leather  wallet  lying  in  the  aisle 
almost  at  my  feet,  and,  like  a  fool,  I  stuck  it, 
with  the  bit  of  chain,  into  my  bag. 

"I    sat    there,    shivering,    for   what   seemed 


360    THE    MAN    IN   LOWER   TEN 

hours.  It  was  still  perfectly  quiet,  except  for 
some  one  snoring.  I  thought  that  would  drive 
me  crazy. 

"The  more  I  thought  of  it  the  worse  things  I 
looked.    The  telegram  was  the  first  thing  against 
me — it  would  put  the  police  on  my  track  at  once, 
when  it  was  discovered  that  the  man  in  lower  ten 
had  been  killed. 

"Then  I  remembered  the  notes,  and  I  took  out 
the  wallet  and  opened  it." 

He  stopped  for  a  minute,  as  if  the  recalling  of 
the  next  occurrence  was  almost  beyond  him. 

"I  took  out  the  wallet,"  he  said  simply,  "and, 
opening  it,  held  it  to  the  light.  In  gilt  letters 
was  the  name,  Simon  Harrington." 

The  detectives  were  leaning  forward  now,  their 
eyes  on  his  face. 

"Things  seemed  to  whirl  around  for  a  while. 
I  sat  there  almost  paralyzed,  wondering  what 
this  new  development  meant  for  me. 

"My  wife,  I  knew,  would  swear  I  had  killed 
her  father ;  nobody  would  be  likely  to  believe  the 
truth. 

"Do  you  believe  me  now?"    He  looked  around 


FINER    DETAILS  361 

at  us  defiantly.    "I  am  telling  the  absolute  truth, 
and  not  one  of  you  believes  me ! 

"After  a  bit  the  man  in  lower  nine  got  up  and 
walked  along  the  aisle  toward  the  smoking  com-  j 
partment.     I  heard  him  go,  and,  leaning  from 
my  berth,  watched  him  out  of  sight. 

"It  was  then  I  got  the  idea  of  changing  berths 
with  him,  getting  into  his  clothes,  and  leaving 
the  train.  I  give  you  my  word  I  had  no  idea  of 
throwing  suspicion  on  him." 

Alison  looked  scornfully  incredulous,  but  I 
felt  that  the  man  was  telling  the  truth. 

"I  changed  the  numbers  of  the  berths,  and  it 
worked  well.  I  got  into  the  other  man's  berth^ 
and  he  came  back  to  mine.  The  rest  was  easy. 
I  dressed  in  his  clothes — luckily,  they  fitted — 
and  jumped  the  train  not  far  from  Baltimore, 
just  before  the  wreck." 

"There  is  something  else  you  must  clear  up," 
I  said.  "Why  did  you  try  to  telephone  me  from 

M ,  and  why  did  you  change  your  mind 

about  the  message?" 

He  looked  astounded. 

"You  knew  I  was  at  M ?"  he  stammered. 


362    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

"Yes,  we  traced  you.  What  about  the  mes 
sage?" 

"Well,  it  was  this  way:  of  course,  I  did  not 
know  your  name,  Mr.  Blakcley.  The  telegram 
said,  'Man  with  papers  in  lower  ten,  car  seven,' 
and  after  I  had  made  what  I  considered  my  es 
cape,  I  began  to  think  I  had  left  the  man  in  my 
berth  in  a  bad  way. 

"He  would  probably  be  accused  of  the  crime. 
So,  although  when  the  wreck  occurred  I  sup 
posed  every  one  connected  with  the  affair  had 
been  killed,  there  was  a  chance  that  you  had 
survived.  I've  not  been  of  much  account,  but  I 
didn't  want  a  man  to  swing  because  I'd  left  him 
in  my  place.  Besides,  I  began  to  have  a  theory 
of  my  own. 

"As  we  entered  the  car  a  tall,  dark  woman 
passed  us,  with  a  glass  of  water  in  her  hand,  and 
I  vaguely  remembered  her.  She  was  amazingly 
like  Blanche  Conway. 

"If  she,  too,  thought  the  man  with  the  notes 
was  in  lower  ten,  it  explained  a  lot,  including 
that  piece  of  a  woman's  necklace.  She  was  a 
jfury,  Blanche  Conway,  capable  of  anything/' 


FINER    DETAILS  868 

z<Then  why  did  you  countermand  that  mes 
sage  ?"  I  asked  curiously. 

"When  I  got  to  the  Carter  house,  and  got  to 
bed — I  had  sprained  my  ankle  in  the  jump — I 
went  through  the  alligator  bag  I  had  taken  from 
lower  nine.  When  I  found  your  name,  I  sent  the 
first  message.  Then,  soon  after,  I  came  across 
the  notes.  It  seemed  too  good  to  be  true,  and  I 
was  crazy  for  fear  the  message  had  gone. 

"At  first  I  was  going  to  send  them  to  Bron- 
eon ;  then  I  began  to  see  what  the  possession  of 
the  notes  meant  to  me.  It  meant  power  over 
Bronson,  money,  influence,  everything.  He  was 
a  devil,  that  man." 

"Well,  he's  at  home  now,"  said  McKnight,  and 
we  were  glad  to  laugh  and  relieve  the  tension. 

Alison  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  as  if  to 
shut  out  the  sight  of  the  man  she  had  so  nearly 
married,  and  I  furtively  touched  one  of  the  soft, 
little  curls  that  nestled  at  the  back  of  her  neck. 

"When  I  was  able  to  walk,"  went  on  the  sullen 
voice,  "I  came  at  once  to  Washington.  I  tried 
to  sell  the  notes  to  Bronson,  but  he  was  almost 
at  the  end  of  his  rope.  Not  even  my  threat  to 


364    THE    MAN    IN   LOWER   TEN 

send  them  back  to  you,  Mr.  Blakeley,  could  make 
him  meet  my  figure.  He  didn't  have  the  money." 

McKnight  was  triumphant. 

"I  think  you  gentlemen  will  see  reason  in  my 
theory  now,"  he  said.  "Mrs.  Conway  wanted  the 
notes  to  force  a  legal  marriage,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  detective  with  the  small  package  carefully 
rolled  off  the  rubber  band,  and  unwrapped  it.  I 
held  my  breath  as  he  took  out,  first,  the  Russia 
leather  wallet. 

"These  things,  Mr.  Blakeley,  we  found  in  the 
sealskin  bag  Mr.  Sullivan  says  he  left  you. 
This  wallet,  Mr.  Sullivan — is  this  the  one  you 
found  on  the  floor  of  the  car  ?" 

Sullivan  opened  it,  and,  glancing  at  the  name 
inside,  "Simon  Harrington,"  nodded  affirma 
tively. 

"And  this,"  went  on  the  detective — "this  is  a 
1  piece  of  gold  chain  ?" 

"It  seems  to  be,"  said  Sullivan,  recoiling  at  the 
blood-stained  end. 

"This,  I  believe,  is  the  dagger."  He  held  it 
up,  and  Alison  gave  a  faint  cry  of  astonishment 


FINER  DETAILS  365 

and  dismay.  Sullivan's  face  grew  ghastly,  and 
he  sat  down  weakly  on  the  nearest  chair. 

The  detective  looked  at  him  shrewdly,  then  at 
Alison's  agitated  face. 

"Where  have  you  seen  this  dagger  before, 
young  lady  ?"  he  asked,  kindly  enough. 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me!"  she  gasped  breathlessly, 
her  eyes  turned  on  Sullivan.  "It's — it's  too  terri 
ble!" 

"Tell  him,"  I  advised,  leaning  over  to  her.  "It 
will  be  found  out  later,  anyhow." 

"Ask  him,"  she  said,  nodding  toward  Sullivan. 

The  detective  unwrapped  the  small  box  Alison 
had  brought,  disclosing  the  trampled  necklace 
and  broken  chain.  With  clumsy  fingers  he 
spread  it  on  the  table  and  fitted  into  place  the 
.bit  of  chain.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that  it 
belonged  there. 

"Where  did  you  find  that  chain?"  Sullivan 
asked  hoarsely,  looking  for  the  first  time  at 
Alison. 

"On  the  floor,  near  the  murdered  man's  berth." 

"Now,  Mr.  Sullivan,"  said  the  detective  civilly, 
"I  believe  you  can  tell  us,  in  the  light  of  these 


two  exhibits,  who  really  did  murder  Simon  Har 
rington." 

Sullivan  looked  again  at  the  dagger,  a  sharp 

'  little  bit  of  steel  with  a  Florentine  handle.   Then 

he  picked  up  the  locket  and  pressed  a  hidden 

spring  under  one  of  the  cameos.     Inside,  very 

neatly  engraved,  was  the  name  and  a  date. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  his  face  ghastly,  "it  is 
of  no  use  for  me  to  attempt  a  denial.  The  dag 
ger  and  necklace  belonged  to  my  sister,  Alice 
Curtis!" 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

AND  ONLY  ONE  AEM 

HOTCHKISS  was  the  first  to  break  the 
tension. 

"Mr.  Sullivan,"  he  asked  suddenly,  "was  your 
sister  left-handed?" 

"Yes." 

Hotchkiss  put  away  his  note-book  and  looked 
around  with  an  air  of  triumphant  vindication. 
It  gave  us  a  chance  to  smile  and  look  relieved. 
After  all,  Mrs.  Curtis  was  dead.  It  was  the 
happiest  solution  of  the  unhappy  affair.  Mc- 
Knight  brought  Sullivan  some  whisky,  and  he 
braced  up  a  little. 

"I  learned  through  the  papers  that  my  wife 
was  in  a  Baltimore  hospital,  and  yesterday  I 
ventured  there  to  see  her.  I  felt  if  she  would , 
help  me  to  keep  straight,  that  now,  with  her 
father  and  my  sister  both  dead,  we  might  be 
happy  together. 

367 


5568    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

"I  understand  now  what  puzzled  me  then.  It 
seemed  that  my  sister  went  into  the  next  car  and 
tried  to  make  my  wife  promise  not  to  interfere. 
But  Ida — Mrs.  Sullivan — was  firm,  of  course. 
She  said  her  father  had  papers,  certificates  and 
so  on,  that  would  stop  the  marriage  at  once. 

"She  said,  also,  that  her  father  was  in  our  car, 
and  that  there  would  be  the  mischief  to  pay  in 
the  morning.  It  was  probably  when  my  sister 
tried  to  get  the  papers  that  he  awakened,  and 
she  had  to  do — what  she  did." 

It  was  over.  Save  for  a  technicality  or  two, 
I  was  a  free  man.  Alison  rose  quietly  and  pre 
pared  to  go ;  the  men  stood  to  let  her  pass,  save 
Sullivan  who  sat  crouched  in  his  chair,  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands.  Hotchkiss,  who  had  been 
tapping  the  desk  with  his  pencil,  looked  up 
abruptly  and  pointed  the  pencil  at  me. 

"  If  all  this  is  true,  and  I  believe  it  is, — then 
who  was  in  the  house  next  door,  Blakeley,  the 
night  you  and  Mr.  Johnson  searched?  You  re 
member,  you  said  it  was  a  woman's  hand  at  the 
trap  door." 

I  glanced  hastily  at  Johnson,  whose  face  wa« 


AND   ONLY   ONE   ARM  369 

impassive.  He  had  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  thn 
door  and  he  opened  it  before  he  spoke. 

'*  There  were  a  number  of  scratches  on  Mrs. 
Con  way's  right  hand,"  he  observed  to  the  room 
in  general.  "Her  wrist  was  bandaged  and 
badly  bruised.'* 

He  went  out  then,  but  he  turned  as  he  closed 
the  door  and  threw  at  me  a  glance  of  half- 
amused,  half-contemptuous  tolerance. 

McKnight  saw  Alison,  with  Mrs.  Dallas,  to 
their  carriage,  and  came  back  again.  The  gath 
ering  in  the  office  was  breaking  up.  Sullivan, 
looking  worn  and  old,  was  standing  by  the 
window,  staring  at  the  broken  necklace  in  his 
hand.  When  he  saw  me  watching  him,  he  put 
it  on  the  desk  and  picked  up  his  hat. 

"If  I  can  not  do  anything  more — "  he  hesi 
tated. 

"I  think  you  have  done  about  enough,"  I  re 
plied  grimly,  and  he  went  out. 

I  believe  that  Richey  and  Hotchkiss  led  me 
somewhere  to  dinner,  and  that,  for  fear  I  would 
be  lonely  without  him,  they  sent  for  Johnson. 
And  I  recall  a  spirited  discussion  in  which 


370    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

Hotchkiss  told  the  detective  that  he  could  man 
age  certain  cases,  but  that  he  lacked  induction. 
Richey  and  I  were  mainly  silent.     My  thoughts 
would  slip  ahead  to  that  hour,  later  in  the  even 
ing,  when  I  should  see  Alison  again. 

I  dressed  in  savage  haste  finally,  and  was  so 
particular  about  my  tie  that  Mrs.  Klopton  gave 
up  in  despair. 

"I  wish,  until  your  arm  is  better,  that  you 
would  buy  the  kind  that  hooks  on,"  she  protested, 
almost  tearfully.  "I'm  sure  they  look  very  nice, 
Mr.  Lawrence.  My  late  husband  always — " 

"That's  a  lover's  knot  you've  tied  this  time," 
I  snarled,  and,  jerking  open  the  bow  knot  she 
had  so  painfully  executed,  looked  out  the  window 
for  Johnson — until  I  recalled  that  he  no  longer 
belonged  in  my  perspective.  I  ended  by  driv 
ing  frantically  to  the  club  and  getting  George 
to  do  it. 

I  was  late,  of  course.  The  drawing-room  and- 
library  at  the  Dallas  home  were  empty.  I  could 
hear  billiard  balls  rolling  somewhere,  and  I 
turned  the  other  way.  I  found  Alison  at  last  on 
the  balcony,  sitting  much  as  she  had  that  night 


AND    ONLY   ONE   ARM          371 

on  the  beach, — her  chin  in  her  hands,  her  eyei 
fixed  unseeingly  on  the  trees  and  lights  of  the 
square  across.  She  was  even  whistling  a  little, 
i  softly.  But  this  time  the  plaintiveness  was  gone. 
It  was  a  tender  little  tune.  She  did  not  move,  as 
I  stood  beside  her,  looking  down.  And  now,  when 
the  moment  had  come,  all  the  thousand  and  one 
things  I  had  been  waiting  to  say  forsook  me, 
precipitately  beat  a  retreat,  and  left  me  unsup 
ported.  The  arc-moon  sent  little  fugitive  lights 
over  her  hair,  her  eyes,  her  gown. 

"Don't — do  that,"  I  said  unsteadily.  "You 
— you  know  what  I  want  to  do  when  you  whis 
tle!" 

She  glanced  up  at  me,  and  she  did  not  stop. 
She  did  not  stop!  She  went  on  whistling  softly, 
a  bit  tremulously.  And  straightway  I  forgot 
the  street,  the  chance  of  passers-by,  the  voices 
in  the  house  behind  us.  "The  world  doesn't  hold 
any  one  but  you,"  I  said  reverently.  "It  is  our 
world,  sweetheart.  I  love  you." 

And  I  kissed  her. 

A  boy  was  whistling  on  the  pavement  below. 


372    THE    MAN    IN    LOWER    TEN 

I  let  her  go  reluctantly  and  sat  back  where  I 
could  see  her. 

"I  haven't  done  this  the  way  I  intended  to  at 
all,"  I  confessed.  "In  books  they  get  things  all 
settled,  and  then  kiss  the  lady." 

"Settled?"  she  inquired. 

"Oh,  about  getting  married  and  that  sort  of 
thing,"  I  explained  with  elaborate  carelessness. 
"We — we  could  go  down  to  Bermuda — or — or 
Jamaica,  say  in  December." 

She  drew  her  hand  away  and  faced  me 
squarely. 

"I  believe  you  are  afraid!"  she  declared.  "I 
refuse  to  marry  you  unless  you  propose  prop 
erly.  Everybody  does  it.  And  it  is  a  woman's 
privilege:  she  wants  to  have  that  to  look  back 
to." 

"Very  well,"  I  consented  with  an  exaggerated 
sigh.  "If  you  will  promise  not  to  think  I  look 
like  an  idiot,  I  shall  do  it,  knee  and  all." 

I  had  to  pass  her  to  close  the  door  behind  us, 
but  when  I  kissed  her  again  she  protested  that  we 
were  not  really  engaged. 

I  turned  to  look  down  at  her.    "It  is  a  terrible 


AND   ONLY   ONE   ARM 

thing,"  I  said  exultantly,  "to  love  a  girl  the  way 
I  love  you,  and  to  have  only  one  arm !"  Then  I 
closed  the  door. 

From  across  the  street  there  came  a  sharp 
crescendo  whistle,  and  a  vaguely  familiar  figure 
separated  itself  from  the  park  railing. 

"Say,"  he  called,  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  "shall  I 
throw  the  key  down  the  elevator  shaft?" 


THE  END 


The  Kef 

of  ModerriftBu  sines 


l|ff>ewriter 


Promotes  Progress  and  Efficiency 
Perfects  Service  and  System 

"The  Machine  Yon  Will  Eventually  Bay" 

UNDERWOOD  TYPEWRITER  CO. 

Uatfwwowl  Bolldlng  "•"•'•""•'  NewV«rfcC«jr 


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girl,  and  she  subjects  them  to  a  test  that  is  f nil  of  mystery,  magic 
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sou  Fisher. 

A  very  beautiful  romance  of  the  Shetland  Islands,  with  a 
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The  first  Uig  success  of  this  much  loved  American  novelist. 
It  is  a  powerful  portrayal  of  a  young  clergyman's  attempt  to  win  his 
beautiful  wife  to  his  own  narrow  creed. 

THE    TRAIL  OF    NINETY-EIGHT.    By  Robert  W.  Service. 
Illustrated  by  Maynard  Dixon. 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  "Vas:abondia  • '  ever  written,  and 
one  of  the  most  accurate  and  pictu.iasque  of  the  stampede  of  |?pld 
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DATE  DUE 


SEP 

6     1977 

RECO  A 

'G  23   1977 

NOV 

4     1980 

"  :i  \ 

MAY 

L      iyB6 

RECOFFR 

1  3   W^ 

CAYLORD 

PdlNTED  IN  U    •    A 

3  1970  00408  4262 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000321850    o 


